


Tender as Meat

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: A Noncanon Version of Little Nightmares II [1]
Category: Little Nightmares (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Cannibalism, Child Death, Coming of Age, Deviates From Canon, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Medical Misadventures, Moral Bankruptcy, POV Second Person, Spoilers for Little Nightmares, Vomit, hinted and blatant mind control, some gore, supernatural powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-09-28 15:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 69,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: With Six's help, you can put a stop to the twisted things happening in the town. She does have a strange appetite, but… it’s okay, right?





	1. Forest

**Author's Note:**

> This is inaccurate to canon, but I had an idea and had to write it. post-Maw
> 
> Call out to [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py) who did some late-night brainstorming with me, and helped devise the sequence of events for this story (as well as the title).

There is a certain draw to the televisions. A dangerous pull. Something that calls to you… asks you to come in…

Other people answer that call, and you see what happens to them. You don’t know how or why. Some hand is orchestrating this, but the details are a mystery to you. All you know is that you shouldn't go near the TVs. But sometimes… sometimes they sing to you, lull you, soothe you. It becomes hard to resist. Your mother couldn't, not forever, and she's not herself anymore. So you get scared. You don't want anything to do with the lulling TVs, or the School that demands obedience to them. Instead, you run. You don't think there's anything better anywhere else in the world, but you can't stand one more moment here.

The Hunter gets you first, as he gets all runaway children.  He locks you up, and you think, _this is it. _This is your end. Maybe death is better than what happens to the others, but when death is right around the corner, any alternative sounds more appealing. Only the Hunter doesn't kill you quick. They have many children; you are just one, and there's no hurry. So he puts you in a dingy room with pictures drawn by children that aren’t you. Children that came before you, and are no longer alive.

You’re too scared to draw anything. This is the end. This is the end.

You’re hunched on the floor when she appears, a slash of yellow high on the bookcase. You don't know who she is, but she looks down at you like a silent, judging God. You imagine sympathy in her gaze; you hardly dare to hope.  There’s a moment like a balanced pin where you wonder what she will do. Then she gestures at the shelves, and gestures behind her. The message is clear: the same way she came in, the both of you can flee.

There’s no time to wonder what miracle of coincidences could have brought someone to save you, when so so few are saved (and so so many are destroyed). The Hunter is in the adjoining room. He could come in to fetch you at any moment. It’s now or never.  At her bidding, you ascend the bookcase (with books are large as you - you must claw your way up, twining fingers around ribbon bookmarks, bruising the soles of your feet on nails jutting from the wood, clambering on any little knickknacks). Three-fourths up, you accidentally dislodge a little glass figurine on the shelf. It falls before you can grab it, and down, down, down it plummets.

Shatters.

_Loud._

Your heart leaps in your throat. The Hunter roars. You’re out of time. You need to _move._

Nearly crying in terror, you fling yourself recklessly up the shelf, scrambling as quick as possible with no regard for your own safety - because if you don’t move fast enough, your fate is sealed. High above you, she’s waving and hopping on her feet frantically. _Don’t leave_, you selfishly pray. _Don’t leave me._

The door slams open. The Hunter's shadow falls on you.

_No! NON O_

You’re not fast enough. You can’t make it in time. His thundering steps shake the bookcase. You’re so close but you won’t make it-

Right as his thick hand reaches, so does her small one.

You grasp hers; she pulls -

His finger brushes your leg, but he’s a fraction too late. You collapse in a heap on top of the bookcase. You’re dazed, shocked that you’re not dead, but she leaps right up and seizes your hand, tugging.

_Now, now!_ She seems to be urging. The danger isn’t gone yet. Not at all. The Hunter begins to shake the bookcase, and that motion is all it takes for you to seize her hand in return and stumble blindly after her. The both of you slip through a minuscule crack in the wall. Outside! You’re outside now! With surprising strength, she yanks you into the gutters. Like riding some bizarre slide, you cling to each other and plummet down the side of the house until you land in a puddle.

You’re free!

No.

She violently pulls you from the puddle, and you see why - the Hunter left the shack, and he’s quickly gaining on you. His legs will swiftly outrun yours. Soon you’re racing side by side with her, convinced that you’ve doomed her, too. Except she ducks and dodges this way and that - into a hollow log she runs, and you follow after. Under brambly bushes and around trees and -

You understand. The Hunter is inevitably faster. So she’s finding paths where he can’t tread. Taking turns beyond his abilities. Guiding you deep into woods where you might vanish in the little things. 

And it’s _working_.

You nearly laugh from the sheer delight of it. Then another sharp turn, another. The two of you dive into a little burrow, cushioned with fluff and sticks. Then you huddle close, listen, wait.

Listen.

The chirping of evening insects. Wind through leaves.

Wait. 

Listen.

The Hunter's heavy boots, and heavy breath. You suck in your own breath, afraid to make even the tiniest of sounds. He growls like an animal. Stomps first one way, then another. He’s looking for you. But he doesn’t know where to look. At one point, his boots stomp directly over the burrow and you quaver, certain he’s found you.

But he keeps on. Huffing like a dog. Angry. A shot fires, but it hits nothing that you know. He's shooting at shadows, maybe. Whatever it is, his sounds grow more and more distant.

Wait.

Listen.

The chirping of evening insects. Wind through the leaves. Her soft panting beside you.

The Hunter is gone.

He's _gone._ You're safe. 

Giddy happiness bubbles up. She saved you! You’re rescued! Feeling at once weak and whimsical, you pull her into a tight hug and bury your face in her shoulder. She twitches, as if surprised, then slowly draws her arms around you and hugs you back. A strange grumbling noise has you pulling away in confusion. What was that? Her face looks pale, her mouth twisted in a grimace. Is she okay? Did you hurt her?

She hunches over, clutching her stomach. This time, you recognize the grumbling noise: she's hungry.

After she went through all that effort, risked her own life to save you… the least you can do is make sure she gets something to eat. Frankly, you’re hungry too. It’s not like the Hunter provides buffets for his captives: he hadn’t given you a single bit of a food in two days. But she looks worse off.  Yes, you’ll get food for her. You’re not sure what is okay to eat in the forest, but you signal to her that you’re looking for food, and that she should stay where she’s at. She nods, and seems to understand.

Off you run, head swinging one way or the other as you look for anything, anything that might be edible. Lately, your meals had come from the little shop in town, which is safe to raid at night, so long as you avoid the rat traps and aren't too loud. But the town is far from here. You're not even sure how far, or in which direction to run. So you'll have to make do with whatever you can find in the wilderness. Several plants you consider, and then dismiss - the last thing you want to do is poison her. You pass an earthworm, and debate about that, too. But feeding her bugs seems discourteous. Several minutes later, you haven’t found anything else, and you start having second thoughts about the earthworm - that’s when you stumble across a very lucky find: a large grey rabbit, its neck circled with blood from the snare that had captured it.

You approach warily, but the creature is, undoubtedly, dead. Freshly dead. Perhaps it was intended as the Hunter's meal. You can’t deny the satisfaction of taking some of the Hunter's meal - although, of course, you can’t bring the whole rabbit to her. No way she could eat something that big.  But you can take some, and there's satisfaction in that. So you find a sharp rock nearby and painstakingly hack off a sliver of meat (it takes a frustratingly long time). It should be enough.

Proud of your find, you begin marching back to the burrow only to meet her halfway. Your eyebrows raise in surprise. She should have waited. You were bringing it back; it wasn’t like you had abandoned her -  but she stumbles out of the grass, clutching her stomach, air hissing through her teeth. She looks horrible. Sick, even. You raise up the slab of meat to show it off. She lurches closer. There, see? You were headed right back. Now you can start up a fire for her, and cook -

The rabbit meat is ripped from your clutches with startling force.

She has her teeth in it before you can do a single thing.

Blinking, shocked, you watch as she vehemently devours every last bit of the meat. Her frenzied crunching and tearing is feral, almost barbaric. After it's all gone (which takes very little time), she wipes bloody lips and offers an embarrassed smile with a wince. _Sorry about that,_ she seems to say. You're just relieved to see her behaving more normally. Maybe she doesn't need it cooked after all, and just... hadn't eaten in a while. That's all. Now she's full, and that's all that matters. It's good to see her feeling better.

You squeeze her hand to let her know it’s okay. But you will need to get more meat and actually cook some for yourself now.

This time, she comes with you and helps you to slice off more rabbit pieces. Together, you collect twigs for a little fire, and build it not far from the burrow. The little pieces of rabbit are mounted on sticks, and then dangled over the flame to roast. Given how she responded before, you half wonder if she's not going to want or expect more from your share. You wouldn't mind - there's plenty to go around. But she shakes her head when you offer some.

Soon the rich smell of cooking meat fills the air, and your own stomach grumbles. The two of you giggle over this, although you aren't sure exactly why. It's just nice not being alone. Although there's no seasoning or spices, the rabbit turns out to be delicious (not eating for a few days will do that to you). Again you offer some, and again she shakes her head.

Once the fire is only embers, and all the food is eaten, she takes a stick, writes _S I X _in the dirt, and points at herself.

Six. You finally have a name for her.

_M O N O_ You write under her letters.

Six smiles.


	2. Forest

You dream about your mother. 

She’s singing, like she used to: a gentle lullaby soothing you to sleep. For a moment, you believe she’s back, and it’s the best feeling in the world, swathed beneath blankets and smiling sleepily up at her face, with her long hair draping nearly to the bed. Your mother. There’s nothing that can compare to the comfort of being safe under her care. She’s back. Everything is okay. 

When you jerk awake, the illusion is shattered. A burrow in the depths of the forest was your bed last night, and now a golden ray of morning sun filters through the dew-wet entrance. Six’s tiny frame, cloaked in yellow, is curled beside you, and there’s some comfort that you aren’t alone anymore. But resignation hangs heavy on your heart, the dream-memory of your mother not far from your mind. 

Your mother hasn’t passed away, so in some sense, she’s still on this earth. Last you knew, she was even occupying the same house, tending to the same sheets, dusting the same shelves. Nonetheless, in all senses that matter, she’s gone beyond anyone’s reach. It’s better not to dwell on it.

You rub away the stray tears that betrayed you, and wrap your arms around your knees. 

What next?

When you ran away, you hadn’t exactly formulated a plan. You just knew you couldn't stay. Not with the School. Not with a monster clothed in the beauty of your mother. Not with the things that happen to children. So you ran. And got caught. You have no better plan now than before. Will you stay out here in the forest forever? Eating what spoils of the Hunter’s meals you can gather? 

… What else is there to do?

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you glance at Six. Maybe she has some answer to that question. Six comes with her own pile of questions, though. You never saw her distinct coat anywhere in the School, nor around the town. That doesn’t mean too much, given there’s a lot of a children, and they come and go and get eaten or grow up. Even so, you have a feeling. An instinct of sorts, that she's not from around here. You wonder where she _is_ from. And what brought her here.

Your train of thought falters when you realize belatedly that she’s trembling in her sleep. Her face is scrunched in distress, her fingers clenching and unclenching. Nightmares plague her too, then. Memories she can’t get away from. It’s disheartening to learn wherever she’s from might be just as bad as here, if not worse. Either way, she doesn’t deserve to suffer trapped in her own mind. You lean over and shake her shoulder. 

Her eyes squeeze tighter shut. She whimpers. 

“_Six_,” you dare to whisper, so raspily that you’re shocked at your own voice. Talking is often dangerous, for many reasons. One of them being that the School didn’t approve of talking: you were there to listen, to learn, not to speak. But out here in the forest, you’re sure it would be okay, just a little. Only you haven’t heard your voice in a long, long time. It doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. You clear your throat. “_Six_. Wake up.”

Another hard shake to her shoulder. 

Six jerks like she was electrocuted, and her eyes, half hidden behind her hair, fly open. 

You raise your hands defensively. _I mean no harm._

Slowly, she relaxes, and looks around to get her bearings. You understand: it often takes some time to pull one’s mind from the dreamworld and into reality, especially if you’re waking in a location you’re not used to. 

She rubs her eyes and sits up. 

“Six,” you say again, and you’re not sure why except for that you feel oddly giddy about it. Here, nobody can hurt you for talking. “Six,” you repeat excitedly, and feel stupid when she gives you an odd look. A _yes, and…?_ look. 

It’s enough to chastise you into silence, although you understand she was just confused why you were repeating her name. You like this new power of talking, though, and resolve to try it again once you have something worthwhile to say.

You gnaw for a bit on the question _what’s next?_ But Six apparently has no such hesitation. She stretches, slips from the burrow, and then trots over to a large flower. One petal she pulls down, and the dew drips into her open mouth. You would never have thought of that as a source of water. You appreciate the ingenuity. 

After her you go, and find another flower, repeating her actions. The dew is sweet and cool, refreshing on your throat (which feels a bit raw even after only a few words). You’re so delighted by it that you go to several more petals and collect their dew as well. The task is absorbing enough that you almost miss Six trotting off into the underbrush. In the very corner of your eye, her yellow raincoat disappears into a berry bush.

Quickly, you release the petal and bolt after her. Maybe you don’t have a plan, or any idea what you’re doing. But she seems to. Anyway, you don’t want to be alone. You fly into the underbrush after her, afraid she’ll disappear. In your haste, you nearly run right into her. She throws back another confused look, so you point at yourself, then her. _I want to go with you._

She nods. Then she reaches up, plucks a berry from the bush, and plops it in your hand. 

She wasn’t leaving after all. Just getting food. You feel stupid, but accept the food gratefully.

The berry, when you take a bite, is sugary and refreshing. A wonderful early morning meal. The juices spill down your chin and you giggle, trying to wipe them off only to smear more on your sleeve. You flail around like getting some berry juice on you is the worst thing ever, and she snorts reticently into her sleeve.

All in all, this means that you don’t finish the berry, and instead accidentally drop it and get it covered in dirt. 

Taking pity on you, Six hands you a new clean berry. Your smile fades. You try to hand it back. Sure, you could probably eat another whole berry, but doesn’t she want any? She shakes her head, and pushes it back at you. At your further confusion, she mimes eating something and promptly vomiting. You can’t decipher if that means she’s full, or that she can’t eat these berries in particular. Either way, she’s adamant that you have it, so you finish off as much as you can, until you couldn't possibly consume another bite. You’re worried about Six, especially given how hungry she had been last night. Regardless, she seems perfectly fine now, and perfectly happy without having any breakfast.

Shrugging it off, you’re debating about finally asking _what’s next?_ when she takes your hand, sticky with berry, and pulls you away into the grasses. Guess you’re going somewhere. She brings you over rocks, under bushes, along felled trees. All the while she looks around, searching for something. Every once in a while, she hops up on stumps and sniffs the air. 

You begin to wonder if she’s not just getting more lost, when a brook comes into sight. It glistens with morning light, and the water bubbles happily as it flows over smooth rocks. This is evidently what Six had been hunting for. She wades right in, and begins to rinse off her hands and her raincoat diligently.

She’s so _business_. Always darting from one thing to the next, serious and objective. It makes sense, because the world is scary, but being serious all the time can really mess people up. She’d probably benefit from a bit of fun. There’s a game you used to play with the other School children (which, like all games, was played in secret so nobody got in trouble). Maybe she’d take to it. You sneak into the creek beside her, under the pretense of rinsing your clothes. Once she’s not looking, you slice your hand hard through the water, sending a good solid wave to douse her. 

Six jumps clear out of the water like an alarmed cat, and lands back in the brook in a defensive pose. Oops.

“It’s a game.” You have to force yourself to speak.

She mouths a lackluster “_oh_.” But you don’t think she’s entertained. She relaxes and goes right back to scrubbing her sleeves. No game, then. At least you tried. It’s probably best to just clean off like she is. Playing would have been more entertaining… but maybe she doesn’t know much about games or water fights.

You’re in the middle of rinsing off when a wave of freezing water assaults your face. Gasping in shock, you look up to meet her devilish expression. Oh, she’s sneaky. Absolutely diabolical. Your face twists in a competitive grin. _Challenge accepted._

You are a pro at this game. There’s no way you’ll let her win. You start off with the double whammy, slicing both hands under the water at once - she dodges one of the twin waves, but the other catches her. Losing no ground, she comes back with the same move. Soon enough, any pretense of cleaning is lost. Everything devolves into a vicious splashing battle with all bets off. Water is flung left and right and all about, until you’re both sopping and laughing so hard that it hurts to breathe.

The simple objective of the game is to be the driest person once the fight concludes. But when you both pause to catch your breath, you have to admit there is no clear winner this time (you’ll get her next time!), because you’re both soaked head to toe.

Eventually, the two of you clamber out of the brook dripping wet, but more or less clean and free of berry-juice. 

The remainder of the morning is spent sunning on a nearby stump. You get sleepy as the sun warms your clothes, and in your hazy half-dream thoughts, you decide it wouldn't be so bad to stay in the forest forever. You would never have to return to the TVs. Never have to return to the School. Never have to see… 

Your heart twists. You _do_ want to see your mother again. But the person you miss isn’t the person she is anymore. It would probably be best to not see her again. You don’t know how to stop what’s happening to people, what happened to her. It’s beyond your power. So maybe… maybe you should just stay here, away from people, away from the decay, and rot, and - 

Six seizes your shoulder hard enough to hurt. You cry out, confused, and another hand slaps down on your mouth. Her face hovers above you; her eyes are wide and frightened. Suddenly,  you hear it, too. Footsteps. Big, heavy footsteps. The Hunter. 

How could you have been so stupid? The rabbit was his. These woods are his. He was going to come looking sooner or later. 

Six releases you and puts a finger to her lips. Then, she springs off the stump and vanishes.

This is what life is. Fear. Hiding. Running. You should have known better. At once bitter and afraid, you dart after Six. Stupid Hunter. Stupid adults. Stupid _everything_. 

With only the flash of Six’s yellow coat to guide your way, you wish bitterly that there was some way to put an end to all of this. 

Some way to stop Them for good. 


	3. Forest

Midday finds you hunched next to a tree trunk, sweat trickling down your back. Far from the creek, the burrow, and from the town, the Hunter had chased, until you ended up here, thoroughly lost, with no idea where your next meal might come from. It’s a small comfort that the Hunter had not captured you - never even caught sight of you, in fact. The forest hid you well, and Six’s darting method again proved elusive to those much bigger and taller.

Even so, it’s hard to feel happy. Aimless, thirsty, irritable. All those fit better. What’s worse is that this part of the forest is a bad place to be. Birds don’t chirp; insects don’t sing; animals don’t linger. You know why, of course: the low hum of television buzzes here instead, like hooks in your chest tugging you closer. Hurting you but it feels like kindness. Their wires, black and thin, slither through the grass, like a network of snakes. Like a trap. You suppose there’s no such thing as safety anywhere. 

Maybe it had to do with your proximity to the televisions, maybe it’s just how abysmal your situation is, but one way or another, you’re beginning to wonder if you really made the right choice. Maybe you shouldn’t have run away.  Only Six manages to pull you from your thoughts, when she’s insane enough to start following the wires. You see how she looks at them - with an alert sort of curiosity. An immunity to their effect. You hadn’t bothered asking why, but now you chase after her angrily.

Doesn’t she realize how dangerous the TVs are? You grab her hand, shaking your head hard. The TVs are bad. Stay away from them. She wiggles out of your grasp.

No matter what you do, she’s bent on following the cord. Begrudgingly, you trail her. No matter how you feel about approaching the TVs, you can’t deny your intrigue at her apparent resistance to their effects. You don’t have the same benefit, though. The droning of the TV grows louder. It seeps into your ears, thrums in your chest like a second heart. You’re familiar with its odd effect: while the sound itself never goes above a low pleasant hum, the reverberations are powerful, like it vibrates at a pitch you can’t hear, like it reaches you silently, speaks to you without words. You shouldn't be anywhere near the TVs. But you don’t want to leave Six. Maybe she doesn’t know to fear them? You tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen...

The wire ultimately leads to one of the little black boxes. You falter and stop, despite your resolve to stay with her. 

A hoarse “wait” comes from your throat, but it’s so muted you don’t think she hears. Your throat closes up and chokes down any further warnings. Fearlessly, she approaches the television. Little hands wrap around the cord. One foot she puts against the box. A single hard pull yanks the cord out. The television blinks into lifelessness. 

Not once had she seemed remotely affected by its power. Amazed, you watch while she grabs the end of the cord and walks right back the way you came. The televisions really _don’t_ bother her. You’ve never met anyone immune to their influence. Back at a tree trunk, with yards of television wire at her disposal, she knots the broken end around a rock, takes aim, and launches it at a tree branch. 

It takes several tries, but ultimately the rock loops around the tree branch. One good tug ensures it’s secure. Then up Six climbs. Confused, you frown up at her until she waves for you to follow. Six is endlessly mystifying. But you’re not going to be a coward or anything.  The cord is a lot less scary when it’s not attached to anything, so you quickly scramble up after her until you’re both perched on the branch. Six unwinds the rock and cord, then repeats the throwing process with another taller branch. In the end, you’re two tiny specks perched at the very top of the tree.

It’s easy to see why she wanted to ascend to this dizzying height (which is enough that you’re trying really, really hard not to think about it). Up here, you can see to the horizon. You can navigate or plan a path forward. Six’s attention, however, is fixed on one thing: a tall, ominous building, with the blinking red light at the very top. It’s massive, even compared to the height of the tree you’re in, and even as far off as it is. 

The Signal Tower. That building gets under your skin, like the TVs do, but worse. There’s something bad about it. Nobody’s ever supposed to go there, and you don’t like how Six is looking at it so intently. 

“There’s the town,” you say, hoping she takes the hint for a better revenue. The town squats like a beaten toad in the Signal Tower's shadow. But it’s familiar, at least. Deep down, you miss it. Even though realistically it can never be your home again. They don’t take runaway kids back. If you disobey once, you’re too much of a risk. 

Nonetheless, your eyes rove until they settle on the roof that was once yours. Is your mother still there? Does she miss you? The old her would have. You don’t think the new her is capable of it. But maybe… if you tried to talk to her…

As you’re lost in these thoughts, Six heads down the cord again. She’s found the marker she was looking for, and knows which way to go. You don’t like that that marker is apparently the Signal Tower. With a heavy heart, you turn away from the sight of the town and go with her. Returning to your old life is impossible. And your mother won’t be the same. You know that. It’s just… sometimes, sometimes you think maybe, maybe-

Maybe you should go back. 

At the base of the tree, Six stares at you like she knows your thoughts. She seems afraid for you. She, like you, has probably seen how easy it is to sink into your vices, no matter how resolute you try to be. People resist and resist and resist and say they never will, they couldn’t, they won’t. Then one day they do. You’re ashamed at how close you get to that, over and over. 

Thankfully distracting you, Six grabs a stick and begins to trace things in the dirt. Forcing yourself to stop lingering on morbid stuff, you look over her shoulder.

First she sketches a tall, tall building, with a little line on the top, a circle - 

It’s the Signal Tower. Then she draws a box inside another box - a TV, you think. And people gathered around it. Your gut clenches. You nod, showing you understand. She viciously x’s out the Signal Tower. Then does the same for the TV. Draws smiles on people’s faces. 

Bring down the tower, you bring down the force controlling people. 

It sounds too simple. She doesn’t know how insidious it is: that the problems started _before_ the televisions did. Even so… taking out the tower would _help_, wouldn't it? It might be enough to bring your mother back, even - and then, with another adult’s help - more could be done, right? It’s not like you have any other plan, any other idea. Only trouble is, nobody could get up the tower. Everybody knows that. The tower is not for civilians. It’s guarded. 

Reading your doubts, Six draws a little rain-coated figure at the top of the tower, then points at herself. _I can._

You shake your head. 

She repeats the same gesture, adamantly. _I can and I will._

Her determination amazes you. Her commitment to saving people, to stopping this nightmare. It’s not something you had ever even considered before. When you ran, you had only thought about saving yourself - because what could you possibly do to save anyone else, when you could barely keep yourself alive? But when you ran, you left behind dozens - no, hundreds - of other kids. And none of them deserved their fates, either. Maybe Six is right. Maybe you actually _can _change things for them, and everyone else.

You chew on your lip. It terrifies you like nothing else, to imagine going to the Signal Tower. To be a hero, of sorts. Six is a really bad influence. Or a really good one. Either way, you’ve already made your decision. Determined, you take the stick for her and draw yourself next to her on top of the tower. 

You’ll do whatever you can. For your mom, for the other kids, and for Six. You’ll go with her to the tower.

Before you can do anything, though, you need something to eat and drink. You haven’t sipped water or ate food since morning, and now it’s late afternoon. You’re starting to feel light-headed again, and think longingly of the store in town. It’s not safe to go there during the day, but at night, when the Shopkeeper has locked up, it’s possible to sneak in and snatch some food. That store is how you survived the (admittedly brief) time before the Hunter caught you. Of course, you always headed right to the vegetables section, because around here, you never know what the meat is made of. Or you do know and that’s precisely why you don’t eat it. Either way, a trip to the store is necessary. You’re frankly amazed that Six doesn’t appear hungry whatsoever, despite the fact she hasn’t eaten anything since last night. 

She starts heading directly to the Signal Tower, but you point aggressively at the town and mime eating. _Hello? Don’t we need food?_

Her fingers drift over her stomach, an odd look crossing her eyes. Then she nods. Phew. You’re beginning to wonder if her intense hunger from earlier was just a sheer lack of planning for meals, which is somewhat understandable - sometimes, you would get so absorbed in tasks that you’d forget to eat.Although it’s hard to believe that’s what’s going on here. She’s been a runaway of some sort longer than you, you’re sure, and she’d have to know the difficulty of acquiring food as well as the importance of eating what you’ve got when you’ve got it. Oh well. There’s no point in thinking in circles about it. 

Linking fingers with hers, you head to the town.

A few hours into your journey, before you've even left the woods, a vicious grumble alerts to you that _someone_ is hungry after all. You throw a teasing look at Six, _what did I tell you? Who’s right? _only to discover her face is twisted up in pain. Not just discomfort, but outright _pain. _Her hand slips from yours to knead her stomach furiously. 

Your smile falters. Geez, that looks bad. Did she just wait until the very last minute to eat? Though that can’t be right - she hadn’t seemed distressed at all until just now… it’s like she leapt from full to ravenous in a matter of seconds. Worried, you reach out to touch her shoulder, only for her to flinch away. Her eyes, shadowed by her hair, show fear, of all things. There’s a dark look in there that has you hesitating. What is she afraid of?

She waves vehemently, _keep going! lead!_

Frowning, you pull away. She’s really worrying you. You’ve never seen anyone have an appetite like this - one that causes them such intense physical pain so quickly. Part of you is frustrated that she didn’t take the berry you offered her earlier: maybe if she had, she wouldn't be so hungry. Another part of you is increasingly certain something else is at play. This is really weird. And Six isn’t stupid. She wouldn't starve herself deliberately, or neglect to eat if she needed to, especially when food is right in front of her. 

Another pang of hunger nearly sends her to her knees. The whimper she emits is heart-wrenching. This is confirmation enough: there’s definitely something wrong. Something different about her appetite. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with irresponsible eating habits - and it seems like she has no control over it. No say in when or why it happens. 

She doesn’t give you time to dwell on it. As soon as she recovers, she’s pushing on your back forcefully. The message is clear: you need to get your butt moving.

You swallow down your questions and anxieties. She’s right. Now isn’t the time. You have to feed her.  That means getting to the store. You take the lead, and she faithfully follows your guide. It’s an oddly flattering sort of feeling. Most of the time, you’re the one tailing after her, hoping she won’t disappear off into the woods or something. You feel… important, valuable, to have her trust like this.

The last thing you want to do is disappoint her. 

Unfortunately, her state continues to deteriorate at a rapid pace. She moves slowly, as if all energy has left her. Twice more on the trip she hunches over, stomach growling angrily, and her breathing gets worse and worse. Your own gut twists seeing her suffer. 

The town is still so, so far away…

“Almost there,” you whisper to her anyway, hoping it motivates her. She’s not even looking forward anymore. Her shoulders are bowed, her arms wrapped around her stomach. At this point, she’s pretty much only pursuing the sound of your footsteps and voice. You can only imagine it’s taking everything in her just to keep plodding after you.

“Can almost see the houses,” you encourage, strained. At this point, neither of you are moving quickly at all, and you keep glancing back nervously. She’s really scaring you. Whatever this hunger is, it hits hard and badly. You just want her to go back to behaving normally.

“C’mon, Six,” you plead softly. What if she can’t make it to the store? You could leave her and get food yourself, then bring it back. But would she be okay? Could she defend herself if something bad happened? 

Right on cue, you hear a distant yell. And the barking of a dog. At first, none of that means anything to you, until you remember the silver cage you passed, when you were dragged into the Hunter’s cabin. The cage with a slavering, huge-toothed wolf-like dog. 

_The Hunter._ Except he isn’t alone anymore. By the look on Six’s face, she understands the problem, too. A dog will be faster than the Hunter. A dog will smell you, and under the Hunter’s hand, relentlessly pursue you.  By the excited braying, it's already caught your scent. 

This is the worst possible time. Six isn’t in any condition to be running (not that you’d make it far anyway, with a dog in pursuit). So you have to think of something, _think!_

You wish you could say you pulled something brilliant out at the last minute. That in a moment of panic, you devised a clever escape. That’s how it’s supposed to go. That’s not what happens. You manage to yank Six along by her raincoat for a few pathetic steps before the dog bursts through the underbrush. Its gargantuan clawed paws scuff dirt, and its fanged teeth snap centimeters from your clothes. You and Six dive away and scatter while its barking rings painfully in your ears. Complete chaos ensues. Dirt and spit spray. You lose all track of what’s going on, only swerving and darting and tumbling in a manic effort to avoid the dog’s snapping maw and stomping paws. At some point, you lose Six, along with any sense of what’s up or down, until you hear her sharp cry and realize the dog’s paws and teeth aren’t anywhere near you anymore. 

Immediately, you’re terrified for her sake. You scramble up. By pure chance, you’d fallen to the wayside. At the moment, the beast is scratching and biting savagely at a bundle of roots at the base of a dying tree, ignoring you completely. You don’t understand what the dog is doing, until you glimpse a little sliver of yellow between the roots and your heart nearly falls through your stomach. Six is in there. Hiding. But the roots aren’t going to keep the dog out forever, not with its claws already raking gouges into them. 

For a moment, you’re paralyzed with fear. You don’t know what to do. All you know is you’re about to witness your best (only) friend get devoured. Do you yell at the dog? Then it’ll just eat you _and_ her. Every option ends with you both getting eaten-  Then you notice something. An old dead branch hanging above the dog’s head. It looks heavy, only barely clinging to the tree. Your heart skips. If you could bring it down on the dog, and either trap it under the weight, or knock it out...

There’s no time to debate if it’ll work or not. No time for second guessing. Already the roots below are being torn up, and Six is being forced further and further into a corner. 

You take a running start and a leap - your hand snags the lowest part of the branch - yes! On all fours you tear your way up the branch. It bounces precariously with every moment. It should only take a little to make it snap, or at least, you hope so. The first tentative hop nearly has you slipping off to the disaster below. Wobbling, you cling on to the bark with your hands. Okay, gotta keep trying. You boing up and down, feeling both stupid and childish. This was a dumb idea. It’ll never work. Your weight is too slight. But Six is depending on you. 

Gritting your teeth, you tuck both legs under you, and slam them down the branch (once again nearly dislodging yourself). There’s a teeny cracking sound. You lift your head, hopeful. Is it breaking? Maybe just one more- 

You don’t have a chance to do anything else before the branch snaps with a sound like a gunshot. The wood disappears from under your feet, then you’re free falling, your hair lifting, your heart in your throat. _Whoomph_. Something yowls. You hit a soft object, tumble off and flop to the ground. Fluff tickles your cheek.

_Did I do it?_ You wonder dizzily. There’s no barking anymore. You blink away spots in your vision. The furred belly brushing against your cheek seizes violently. A flailing stray paw thumps into your side, nearly knocking the wind of you. Coughing and clutching your head, you stagger to your feet. The dog is a large mound of brownish-grey fur next to you, lying on its side. It’s still breathing, with its front shoulders pinned beneath the branch, and all its paws pointless churning, catching nothing but air. 

You feel a strong surge of guilt. You hadn’t meant to really hurt the dog… you just wanted to stop it from killing Six.

Six! Is she okay?

The dogs abruptly seizes again, emitting a tortured wail that makes you wince. (It doesn't even look that hurt from here: why is it making noises like that? You wish it wouldn't). 

You try to climb over the branch only for one thrashing leg to catch you again and send you to the dirt.  Spitting out dust, you get up. Wet sounds of flesh crunching and tearing reach your ears, but your brain can’t make sense of what they mean. The dog’s struggles are weakening, which at least means it probably won't kick you off again. You pray everything is okay with Six as you wrestle your way over the branch (beneath you, the dog shudders, and goes still). 

You hop down on the other side of the branch. Then freeze exactly where you’re standing. You can’t comprehend what you’re seeing. Not at first. 

The dog’s throat is ripped open. Like an overstuffed tin can, chunks of meat and muscle have ruptured from the wound, and blood soaks through its fur. The smell is putrid and hot, gagging you. This horrific injury isn’t something you caused. But it’s very, very obvious who did.

Six is crouched over the wound like a ravenous beast, her teeth buried in the carnage, her coat splattered with red. There’s crunching, sucking, panting, swallowing. She’s _eating._ Oh God. She’s eating the dog.  Your stomach churns; you want to vomit but you’re frozen in place, staring, not understanding. You knew she was hungry but this - this is disturbing beyond anything you’ve seen. Frenzied, feverish, she shoves the gore down her throat like she can’t possibly consume it fast enough. The blood covering her only incites a fiercer hunger, and she dives in again and again, pulling stringy flesh into her mouth, biting into muscle, swallowing with blissful ecstasy. 

This is… very, very not normal. It speaks to a truth that terrifies you: _she desperately needed this_. It’s why the fruit you offered wouldn’t do. She needs meat. Raw. Preferably live and writhing. 

Oh God, what’s wrong with her -

Unable to hold it any longer, you bend double and spit up little more than stomach acid and water. You want to shut out the noises. You want to forget the sight. Why didn’t she tell you - why didn’t you know - what _is_ she - she’s no better than _them _-

Your horror is your undoing. Because you forgot what would obviously come after the dog: the man who sent it. The Hunter. You don’t hear his thumping footsteps in time before his grubby thick fingered hand clamps around your body. Screaming, you’re lifted from the ground.

Nonono - not again - 

You bite down _hard_ on the Hunter’s finger. With a roar, he shakes his hand and you go soaring _thud_ into a tree, and then to the dirt. You practically hit the ground running. The Hunter shrieks, your legs churn. He’s so so close, oh God, he’s going to get you again - his shadow descends - 

Something small and yellow slams into you. _Six._

Together you half-dive half-sprawl away from the Hunter’s grasp, and immediately set off running again, side by side. There’s not a moment to think about what she did. While the shadows of the trees lengthen with oncoming evening, the two of you disappear from the Hunter’s sight.


	4. Shop

Your frantic run slows to a jog, then a walk. The Hunter’s long gone, with any luck.

Meanwhile, Six falls into step a safe distance behind you. The tension between you is visceral enough to be painful, but you don’t know how to break it. You don’t know if it can be broken. Her footsteps are so silent that sometimes you wonder if she hasn’t wandered off, but every time you cast a look back, she’s still there. Quiet. Constant. Unnervingly, she reminds you of a predator stalking her prey.  Every time, you say nothing, and look forward again, queasy. She’s covered in blood. The front of her coat, her sleeves, her face.

You don’t know what to make of what happened. Maybe you’re overreacting. It was just a dog… if you were really, really desperate, you might eat a dog, even if the idea sounds horrible right now (you’re not entirely convinced). Then again, it’s not the subject of her hunger that disturbs you the most. It’s that the dog was alive when she started. It’s her ferocity, and the look in her eye. In that moment, you were certain she wouldn't care _what_ she was eating.

It’s creepy. Inhuman. Not even the people in the town have that same _need._

It doesn’t match up with everything you know of her, though. She saved you. She wants to save the other kids, too.

Glancing back for the dozenth time, you wince a bit. It’s pretty obvious she’s walking so glumly behind you because she knows you’re upset; because she knows what she did. You didn’t think anything of it at the time, but you remember that after she ate the rabbit meat, she was embarrassed, and avoided meeting your eyes. Clearly, this isn’t something she’s proud of. Not something she can control, either: you saw how badly the hunger was affecting her. She probably just seized the first thing she could cram in her mouth.

You shudder. What if the dog hadn’t shown up? What if you were alone with her when she got that desperate? Would she actually hurt someone she cared about if it meant getting fed?

You don’t want to think about something like that, but if you’re going to keep traveling with her, it’s a very real concern. Only then do you realize you still plan on helping her. It’s not like this completely changes things, right? Her motives are good. In fact, maybe they make more sense: she wants positive change despite this… issue in her nature.

You don’t know. You really don’t know. Your mind is flip-flopping from justifying her actions to demonizing them and you don’t know which interpretation is right, if either. You need more information. Answers. And you’re probably not going to get them running in circles in your own head.

Resolved, you turn around. 

Six freezes, one foot mid-step. Slowly she lowers the foot to the ground. Her eyes watch you warily, as if you’re the one to be scared of. 

Talking is hard. You chew your lip as you devise words carefully. What you eventually say isn’t what you planned, but it stumbles out anyway, “why didn’t you tell me?” The sting of betrayal runs under those words. If she had been honest upfront, if she had explained it better, maybe you wouldn't be so upset.

She wraps her arms around herself and looks away.

“You know it’s bad, don’t you? You know that isn’t okay?”

A nearly imperceptible tilt of her chin. Acknowledgment. 

“You could have waited for the store.” That remark you regret immediately, because even you know it’s not true. She doesn’t respond, and you don’t blame her. It was a dumb, accusatory statement. Just you messing up with words again, lashing out. It missed the point of why you’re upset. Your fingers clench and unclench anxiously. _Wait and think about what you’re going to say._

Six finally moves; taking a step away, leaning to the darkness of the forest. As if she’s thinking about leaving. Like she thinks you don’t want her around anymore. 

“Wait,” you say faintly.

Her gaze slides to you.

You fiddle with your fingers. Another question slips out, one you were afraid to ask but had to, “did you hurt anybody before?” Hurt sounds better than kill. Less weird than eat. Both of those words are what you’re actually thinking. 

Six nods. 

You nearly bite through your lip. At least she’s honest, right? “Was it… bad?” Stupid question. Like it would ever be a _good_ thing. But you don’t mean on a spectrum of good to bad. You mean like… bad to bad-bad. Real messed up bad.

She nods. Your windpipe clenches shut. You can hear your heart beating in your ears. The question is barely a whisper, “was it ever a kid?”

She hesitates. Shifts from foot to foot. Then, slowly, nods. 

After that, it’s hard forming words. You focus on breathing. Okay. Okay. She’s killed a kid. There it is, out in the open. She got so hungry that she killed and ate a kid. That’s… something she’s capable of. 

The people in town, they devour children on a commercial scale. But they’re adults. And they’re twisted by the televisions, twisted by some force beyond the televisions. You’ve never met another kid with that kind of appetite. Never met a person who seemed so sane and so normal and yet - is so very _not_. Never met someone you considered a friend who’d do that.

You’re light-headed. Dizzy. This is a lot to take in.

Six steps forward, concern in her eyes, and you stumble backward. No, no. You need a bit of distance right now. You don’t want her any closer. How well did she know the other kid? Were they friends, too? This is a question you aren’t brave enough to ask. 

“But you can’t help it,” your voice trembles. “Right?”

She watches you warily. The answer is obvious, because you saw how she behaved, like she wasn’t herself anymore. 

“You - you wanna help kids, right?” you ask hoarsely. “You want to stop - stop these things from happening-“

This time, she nods fervently. You nod with her, until you feel stupid and stop. You believe her. You really do. Unfortunately, not even the reassurance assuages your unease. No matter her intentions, what she did (what she’s done) unsettles you to the core. 

There were other questions bouncing in your skull. Too many. You don’t find the courage to ask any of them. Silence falls. Cicadas sing. Your stomach turns. 

Six waits. Like she’s expecting you to make some verdict. Some conclusion, whether she’s a kid or a monster. Well, you haven’t figured that out yet. At the moment, your nerves are shot and you’re exhausted beyond belief. You need time to process this. To come to the right conclusion.

“Let’s get to the store,” you mutter tightly.

Six hesitates. Her raincoat is the only bright thing in a sea of encroaching darkness. You raise your eyebrows, jerk your head. _Well? Aren’t you coming?_

Ducking her head, she follows.

* * *

The town is dark. It’s not safe at night, so you slip between houses, silent as mice. You tread along gutters and sneak through cracks in the fences. This is a route you know well. Avoid the light posts, where people might spy children darting about. Stay low. Hide when you hear movement. 

On the pavement, feet tread back and forth. People passing each other without speaking. They’re active at night. Active at all hours. You’ve never liked this kind of subterfuge, but now your grumbling stomach and recent events have your movements especially jerky and irritable. You don’t want to have to avoid people. You don’t want to have to sneak, and hide, and go through all this effort just to get stupid food which is easy for normal people to just walk right in the store to get. You also don’t want to deal with how you feel about Six, or deal with the fact that she’s sticking close behind you and smells of blood.

When you reach the store, a drooping wooden sign displays its title in faded letters. At some point you imagine it was run by a good man, for good reasons. Not so much anymore. Regardless, it carries food that is edible to you (as well as food that isn’t). You can’t help bitterly thinking that Six would like the latter type. 

(Are you being too harsh?)

(She’s a murderer-)

(She’s your friend)

You shake off the thoughts as you climb up the old, flaking brick facade. The mortar here has worn away so badly that you can easily hook your fingers over each brick. At the top, you slip under the eaves of the roof, then cling tightly to the boards when the family of bats that live here go shooting out squawking in offense. Normally, you apologize to the bats. You’re too irritated for that right now. Army crawling deeper between the boards, dodging around bat poop, you eventually find the little disjoint in the wood, where two planks don’t match up right anymore. You peek through.

Everything is like you remember it. This is the little bathroom, with a single stall, a sink, and a few boxes messily tossed around - extra storage, you always assumed.

No shopkeeper in sight. 

Beside the crevice, you have a length of stolen rope tied to the rafters above. You give it an experimental tug to ensure the rope is snugly bound to the board (and that the board isn’t loose, either). Looks good. 

Down you climb, and land right next to the soap dispenser, which has drooled greenish foam onto the counter. Ignoring the puddle of foam, you head straight for the sink, and crank the handle until cool water is pouring from the faucet. Hanging on to the swan-neck of the faucet, you lean over and sip at the stream. It’s unimaginably relieving, and helps temper the headache that had settled in your skull.

In the corner of your eye, Six steps off the rope ladder. You straighten, eyeing her. How long will it be before she gets hungry again? It was…. about a day between eating the rabbit and eating the dog. Maybe you can expect that again. 

The tension is palpable as she silently steps into the sink, beginning to rinse her coat in the faucet stream. Blood swirls in eddies down the drain. That’s something convenient, you notice. Blood washes out of her coat very easily. Making it impossible to tell how many times it’s been stained with red. 

Soon enough, her coat is clean again, only a little normal wear and tear around the edges. You shut off the faucet. Food next. Off the counter top onto a box, then down to the bathroom floor. Predictably, you hear Six drop down behind you, and then her bare feet slap on the tile as she trots in your stead.

Peering your head around the bathroom door, you determine the coast is clear. Dodging a set mouse trap, you next find a little shopping basket, turn it over, and use that to climb up on one of the wooden food stands. There’s an explosion of variety here. Onions, carrots, leafy greens, broccoli, cabbage. You’d really rather these things be cooked, like the way your mother used to, with different oils and spices. But you’re starving and not about to be picky. They’re at least fresh and crunchy (for the most part), and you sample a bit from several different vegetables. The shopkeeper’s going to find chew marks in the food in the morning, and assume it’s the rats again, but that’s none of your business. 

Soon enough, your stomach is full. Thirst assuaged, hunger abated, the only thing left is to _sleep_. Which you’re very, _very_ much looking forward to. You turn to hop off the stand, only to glimpse Six sitting and hugging her knees across the room on the floor. You’re glad she’s respecting your desire for distance. But it’s been a few hours since she last ate now, hasn’t it? There’s a moment of stillness, Six staring determinedly at the floor, you watching her. You hate this tension. You hate feeling weird like this. Scared. You just want to go back to enjoying her company. To being friends. It’s so hard to do that when all you can think about is her hurting another kid.

Chewing the inside of your lip, you march over to the meats section. Normally, you wouldn't ever want to touch this stuff. The smell alone could make you sick, without even considering where it all came from. She’s eaten worse, though, so it won’t bother her. Anyway, the vegetables aren’t going to cut it. 

The smallest (most manageable) slab of meat you push off the stand until it slaps to the floor with an awkwardly loud noise. You navigate back to the vegetables, down the basket, down to the floor. Then you grab the slimy meat (burying a shudder for having to touch it, already promising yourself to thoroughly wash your hands after), and haul it within an inch of Six’s toes. She stares at the oozing red slab with a weird expression of dread in her eyes. 

“Eat,” you say, quietly. 

She shakes her head. Not hungry.

“Isn’t this what you need?” 

No response.

Anger sparks. You dragged this disgusting thing over to her, _for_ her, so that she’d keep her appetite curbed. “_Eat it.”_

Six averts her eyes. Shakes her head. 

You’re not usually prone to rage, so it scares you and her when you abruptly outburst, “I don’t care if you’re not hungry! _Eat_!”

Slowly, Six’s eyes rove down to the food. Her face shows only revulsion, like she can’t stomach the mere _idea_ of eating this. That’s ironic, given that a few hours earlier, she’d had her teeth buried in the throat of a living animal. She can deal with it. 

You mime taking a bite. _C’mon. Stay full so you don’t scare me again._

Six winces. Then her legs untangle, and she positions herself to eat. Hesitating, she takes a shaky breath. Then bites in. 

Amidst your headache, and your anger, and your fear, there’s a bizarre flicker of misplaced intrigue. (Her teeth in the front are flat. Not good for tearing at meat. Are her teeth in the back the same? Or different?) Whatever’s going on with her teeth, though, it’s effective. She tears a chunk off with little effort, though her expression is of sheer disgust, and it seems like she’s fighting the instinct to spit out the mouthful. You feel bad, because she looks miserable, but - isn’t this the right thing to do? Won’t it stop her from getting hungry enough to kill someone?

Six has to force herself to swallow. Then she shudders, takes another bite. Your gut twists with guilt. Okay, now you’re really feeling bad. You didn’t think she’d actually hate eating it this much. Should you tell her to stop? (Then she might get hungry later and-)

Six stops on her own, a few bites later. Not because she’s full. Instead, you see the color leaving her face. You see her eyes go round. Her teeth clench. She looks…

The word _sick_ drifts across your brain, just in time for her to slap her hand to her mouth, and her body to heave forward like she’s going to throw up.

Oh. She looks really, _really_ sick. Another convulsion rocks through her; her knuckles are white on her face, her eyes watering in distress.

You scramble up. “Don’t - don’t throw up -“

She’s making a colossal effort to choke it down, but it doesn’t matter how hard she tries when her body says _no._ Both hands clamp over her mouth determinedly while she outright whimpers. You don’t understand - the meat was fine - it was raw, how she likes - 

Another violent heave racks up her torso. Red-tinted vomit sprays from between her fingers and you nearly throw up yourself at the sheer vileness of it. She moans in disgust, shuddering, but firmly keeping her hands pressed to her mouth. “Okay n-nevermind,” you flail your hands and screw your eyes shut, not wanting to look, “just throw up, throw up-“ this is clearly a situation where it’s better to let it out.

Looking away doesn’t do anything for the sound. The most hideous wet burping sounds; splattering liquid; Six gagging and gasping.

Euugh. You’re grateful when it’s over. Daring to peek with one eye, you see Six panting over a sizable pile of chunks that reek overwhelmingly of stomach acid and half-digested meat. That’s more than what she just ate. That’s some of the dog. 

Six looks absolutely terrible. Her lips tremble. Her nose sniffles. Then hot tears are streaming down her face, and you feel like a jerk. The biggest of jerks. The worst of all jerks.

Apologies rise up your throat but get stuck - what can you even say to make this better?

She hunches over, sobbing, her chin and hands stained with blood and vomit, and the sight is so pathetic that part of you shrivels up in despair. You did this. You did this because you were upset, exhausted, scared. If her problem could just be solved by frequent eating, then she would have already figured that out and addressed it. You knew that and you forced her to eat anyway. 

“Six-“ You hate that words of anger came out so easily, but ones of apologies and comfort get stuck like broken gears. You won’t do it again. You won’t ever make her eat like that again. You want to promise that. Actions will have to do where words are failing you.

Your hand wraps around her wrist, pulls her up. She’s filthy, smells awful, but she’s a _person, your friend, _and she’s upset. You pull her into a tight hug. At first she tenses, but with your fingers stroking soothingly down her back, she relaxes, and cries into your shoulder. It’s surprising how frail she feels in your arms. How thin. 

“I-“ you verbally stumble. Collect yourself. “I won’t do that again,” finally comes out. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

After that, you don’t know what to say. Helplessly, you hold her, and pet her back, until the sobbing turns to sniffling, and until that, too, dwindles.

Earlier, Six was waiting for you to make a verdict. Her morality isn’t up to you to decide, you've realized. But in your mind, you’re certain, certain like you should have been earlier.  Gently, you extricate yourself, and slip your hand under her hood to ruffle her hair the way your mom used to do for you. You always found it comforting; you hope she does, too. 

She flashes a brief, faint smile.

“C’mon,” you say softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”


	5. Market

Six is sitting, red-eyed and mopey, on the edge of the sink, wearing a grubby off-white undershirt and pants. She’d already cleaned herself off. You’re in the sink, scrubbing her raincoat. It’s the least you can do after upsetting her so much. Not to make any mistake - you’re not _comfortable_ with her eating habits, and you never will be. There’s a difference, though, between being comfortable with something and accepting it. She didn’t deserve your initial response, and doesn’t deserve to feel horrible over something she can’t control.

What can you do to help her feel better, and lighten the mood? Clumsily, you settle on, “Shopkeeper’s gonna be surprised tomorrow.”

Six looks up. She doesn’t understand the joke. Probably because it wasn’t all that funny. You should have thought of something else. Still, you don’t want to leave her confused, so you  jerk your head to the main room, where all the grossness is. He’s going to walk in and see that and have no idea what happened. Just, _surprise_! _Welcome to your store_! Enjoy the nastiness! 

Okay, it was a lame joke, but you found some amusement imagining the Shopkeeper, a monster if you’ve ever seen one, be in that situation.

Six understands, then: she snorts behind her hand, and her eyes crinkle with amusement. It might have been a pity laugh, but it feels good to make her happy. Encouraged, you set aside her coat (which is pretty much clean at this point anyway), and assume a big angry frown like the Shopkeeper always has. You rigidly hold your arms at your sides, stomp across the sink like you’re crossing the shop, and then lean over to inspect an imaginary puddle of vomit. Drawing a comically wrong conclusion, you straighten and exclaim, “those dratted _rats_ again!”

Six buries her face in her hands and giggles. 

Face twisted into an exaggerated pout, you stomp around the sink. “Where are those rats… I’m gonna get ‘em!” 

Tucking her hands to her chest, Six twitches her nose and makes a squeaking noise.

Your eyes narrow. “There’s one right there!”

Six hops up onto the counter, bouncing in place, “Eek, eek!”

“Why, I’m gonna get that rat-“ 

A chase commences, with the two of you skittering around the countertop after each other, and trying to stay in character while mostly falling apart and laughing anyway. It’s by the leaking soap dispenser that you finally nab the back of her shirt, because she slowed down to navigate the slippery foam. Delight crosses your face, a _gotcha!_ at the tip of your tongue, when she spins on her heel, her hands clamp down on your arms, and - 

You nearly see stars with how hard she slams your back against the tile wall.

Her grin is dark, her eyes dancing. _Got you._

A vivid image of her teeth puncturing your jugular leaps to the forefront of your mind. You suck in a sharp breath, only for Six to release you and laugh. Right. Right. Obviously that was just part of the game.

“Don’t think the rat’s supposed to catch the Shopkeeper,” you say faintly. 

She sticks out her tongue playfully. 

Your heart settles from its staccato pace. Geez. You really overreacted. Laughing again to release the tension, you rake your fingers through your hair and glance back at the sink, where Six’s coat is still laying, soaking wet. It’s probably clean enough. Six yawns beside you, and you’re reminded of your exhaustion, too. It’s way past the time either of you would like to have been asleep, you’re sure. Yeah, the coat is clean enough. 

Ringing it out, then tossing it over your shoulder, you ascend the rope ladder. You’ve slept up here in the eaves before, where the bats are. It’s not cozy. The important thing is that it’s safe - nobody ever checks up here. The same can’t be said for other nooks and crannies about the town, where you might wake to a gigantic hand circling your body. 

Luckily, this location doesn’t seem to bother Six at all. Without hesitation, she crawls right into one of the cleanest corners and curls up. Maybe she’s used to sleeping in cramped, uncomfortable places. Not for the first time, you wonder where she comes from. How she ended up here. How long she’s been a runaway, if that’s even what she is (you don’t think it is). She seems different than the other kids, not because of her appetite, although that’s something different, too. There’s just a feeling about her. 

A loud yawn disturbs your thoughts - this time, coming from you. Probably best to sleep and mull on these things later. You wind up the rope (wouldn't want the Shopkeeper finding your spot because of it), set it beside the crack in the boards, and then hang up her coat in the rafters. After that, you find your own clean patch of wood, and lay down. Unlike Six, you’re used to a soft bed, clean sheets, fluffy pillows. You haven’t gotten used to sleeping in weird places like this yet, but as your thoughts drift more and more, you think, _I’m happy._

It’s a weird thing to think. Today was horrible in a lot of ways. But… you’re not alone anymore. And now you have a purpose, too - you’re going to help Six free all the kids, and lift the corruption in the town. Not to mention - today you spoke way more than you had in weeks. Your throat is sore for it, but it feels nice. Liberating. Like you’re more free sneaking around town with Six than you ever could be under your own roof and the School. 

It’s a funny thought, but it lulls you to sleep. 

* * *

Morning is announced with the ear-splitting screeching of metal crates dragged across concrete, and a collection of boisterous happy voices, which don’t quite drown out the screams cut short by the thud of a butcher’s knife. The hot fetid reek of blood, so thick that it chokes you, has perfused through every inch of the eaves. 

Groaning, you clutch your skull. You know these sounds and smells well. They come with the Market. The Market is a gruesome event occurring once a week, the same morning, like clockwork. And that morning, without fail, the gutters run with blood. Children are killed while the adults laugh and eat. Inside tents, piles and piles of cages are stacked, each one housing a child, sometimes two or three. Each of them waiting to meet their fate. You hate it. Hate it worse than anything. The Market is a big colorful occasion; it draws in butchers from across the town, and consumers from every home. Like it’s a celebration rather than a slaughter. 

After only a short period as a runaway, you’d already lost track of time, but you feel so stupid for failing to anticipate the Market would be today. You don’t want to be anywhere near this… You don’t want to see it… The stench is already so strong that you’re queasy, and your head feels hot and sluggish.

You have to get away from here. Running away unscathed won’t be easy, but you can’t stick around. You can’t endure the noises and the smells and the callous disregard of life. Uncurling your sore body, you glance across the eaves, thinking to wake up Six and devise an escape plan, only to find she’s already awake. Her eyes are eerily fixed to the exit, where the stagnant air trickles in, bearing all its sour scents. Unlike you, she doesn’t react to those scents with dread, or disgust, or horror. There’s a frightening interest in her gaze: a steady, intent hunger.

Oh. 

That… that makes sense. Yesterday, she threw up almost everything she’d eaten. Of course she’d gain her appetite back faster than normal. And now the town is awash with flesh and viscera. She can’t help being drawn to it. Anger flares, but not at her. Instead, you’re mad at the adults, for making Six go through this when she clearly doesn’t want it. For making things more difficult when they don’t have to be (when Six was looking happier last night, and now that’s ruined). 

Then you have to stop yourself, muddled. The kids getting eaten at the Market should bother you more than Six getting inconvenienced. And the former does bother you - a _lot_. It’s never okay, what they do. It makes you sick to your stomach, and you don’t want to be anywhere near it. It’s just - the things the butchers and townspeople do are more familiar, are a simple fact of your life since you were young. 

This is beside the point. You need to get her out of here. (Need to get you both out of here). 

“_Six_,” you whisper sharply.

Her regard swerves to you. Her eyes are calm. Okay. Not too hungry yet. That’s promising, and will ideally give you time to escape before she starts _really _needing to eat. You point to the exit. She nods, grabs her coat shakily, and pulls it on. 

Finding a way through the town will be difficult. Worse, the two of you will inevitably be heading to the Signal Tower, which treads into territory with which you’re less familiar. Staying here is out of the question, though. You doubt Six can hold back her hunger all day, and the shop’s going to be just as active as outside, taking its own part in the events - so eating something within the shop is out of the question. You hunch near the entrance of the eaves, running your knowledge of the town’s layout in your mind to try to construct a safe enough route. Six, apparently, doesn’t want to wait. Before you know it, she’s slipped past you, and is descending down the brick facade. 

Is she insane? You wave wildly at her, but she’s not looking up. Drat. Does she have a plan? How can she possibly know where to go? Sighing in resignation, you slot your feet in the bricks too and go down after her. When you reach the bottom, she’s already slinking off in the completely wrong direction: not toward the tower, but towards the chattering of people, the clattering of cages, the sick squelching of meat. Towards the Market. 

No no no 

She’s not going to try to nab food there, is she? It’s way too dangerous, not to mention, you were hoping you could keep her well-fed on stuff that wasn’t - well, wasn’t from kids. Nerves leaping along your skin, you bolt after her and catch her right outside a tent, snagging her arm. In a single look, you try to convey your thoughts; _No, this is dangerous. Let’s get out of here!_

She’s not in a mood to listen. She pulls out of your grip, then ducks under the canvas of a tent, disappearing within. The last thing you want to do is get involved with the Market in any way. But you can’t just leave her. Scowling, you slip into the tent after her, entering a dim, overly hot space. The smell is ten times words in here, thickly concentrated and mingling horribly with sweat and piss. It’s so hot that already sweat sticks hair to your forehead.

This is terrible. Oh God, this is terrible. You’ve never actually been this close before. Cages are stacked one atop another to the very ceiling of the tent. Dozens of wide, frightened eyes peer out from behind bars. Dozens of tiny hands grip the bars. This is where kids are held before they’re brought out to be slaughtered. 

Six crouches behind a cage, and you quickly duck down too when you hear the booming voice of someone rifling up front, “-nothing but bone on the runaways: don’t know why people even want ‘em.”

A cage door is jerked open. “Please, please no!” A girl shrieks, while the other kids huddle further into the backs of their cages. You clap your hands over your ears, shuddering, but it doesn’t drown the sounds out.

“‘Course, I don’t think the School feeds them well enough, either-“ He’s so casual. So nonchalant while he rips a child screaming from her cage. It’s nothing to him. One insignificant life out of a billion. Just part of his job. His shadow sweeps over you and Six as he strides by, and you cling to her, paralyzed. But he doesn’t notice you. The tent entrance is thrust aside, then shut. The screaming goes with it. The adult, the monster, the _Fetcher_, is gone. Faint sobbing can be heard from several cages. Everyone knows the fate of the child that was taken. Everyone expects the same for themselves. 

Outside the tent (outside all the tents, because this isn’t the only one), there’s hundreds of consumers laughing and clinking glasses and living it up. Who let things be this way? Who decided this? Don’t they see the suffering under their happiness? These are pointless questions, just like they always have been. Nobody notices. Nobody cares. Anybody that did was forced to change, or was silenced.

This place is awful. A nightmare. The stench is so bad your eyes are watering. You don’t want to be here. At all. 

“Six,” you whimper, pulling on her sleeve. 

She doesn’t answer. A soft groan passes her lips, and she squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing her temple. Is she okay? You lean closer, worriedly. Is she hungry? When her eyes open, you think you can see it, deep in her pupils. The smell’s really getting to her, too, just in a very different way than you. “Six, let’s go-“ you whisper tightly, scared for new reason entirely. 

She takes a steadying breath, collecting herself. Then, ignoring you, her attention is snared by the contents of the cage she’d hidden behind. From within, a thin mousey face peers out. “You’re free,” the boy breathes, like he can hardly dare to believe it.

Six puts a finger to her lips, _Shh!_

What is she doing? Half of you is worried she’s planning on eating this kid, but you know that’s an impractical fear (right?): she only eats stuff when she’s forced to by need. At the moment she looks… more or less collected. More so than you'd ever expect with the carnage and danger surrounding you.

“Y-you’re gonna free me, too, right?” The boy’s voice raises. 

Six grabs the bars of the cage hard and shakes them, staring sternly at him. He finally gets the message, and falls silent, his eyes tracking her every move with raw desperation. Six creeps to the front of his cage. From her sleeve she conjures a thin black hairpin, which she slips into the lock. Wait, where did she get that? You frown, not remembering her having it before, but shake off the thought because it’s the least of your concerns right now.A few moments later, there’s a click. The lock falls. The kid bursts out without a single thank you, and goes flying out of the tent in a flash. Gone. Six frowns after him, looking annoyed. 

“Hey! _Hey_!” Another caged child bangs on the bars - Six shushes them, too, but they continue, “you gotta free me, c’mon - you gotta let me out too-“

She sweeps to their cage, beginning to tackle their lock, too. You get it. Six isn’t here for any sinister purpose: she’s just freeing the kids. Whoever she can. She’s also trying to keep them quiet, because if they all beg or start panicking, it could make a racket loud enough to attract the Fetcher’s attention, in which case the whole operation is off. 

You’re still uneasy. This is dangerous. Any wrong move and the Fetcher could snatch either of you. Still, you’re clearly not going to convince Six to leave. 

You sweat and panic for a second, before whispering determinedly to Six, “I’ll help.” You can make a difference. You can _save_ people. Just like she saved you. You’re still petrified out of your mind, but… that prospect is heartening. 

Six nods.

You touch her hand, just for a fraction of a second, and catch her eyes. Silently, your look conveys your concern. _Can you keep it together for this?_

Hesitation. Then she nods. You’ll have to trust her.

She begins to lock-pick the next keyhole, while you start climbing on cages and whispering to the kids: urging them to remain quiet, that Six will get to them, if only they stay _silent. _It's thrilling, to not only speak, but to use your words for good. There’s an energy of frightened hope buzzing through the air, as the kids gather to the front of the cages, clawing greedily, their eyes strained, each one scared that he or her will be missed and devoured. Against your advice, some of them begin to plead, to beg, and you have to revisit their cages to frantically reassure them. 

“I know you’re scared,” you whisper, “but if the Fetcher finds us, we won’t be able to save anyone.” 

Twice more the Fetcher comes in, and each time takes a child with him (each time, you duck away and hide). The taken children’s screaming rings in your ears and makes any sense of heroism that was blooming wither and die. _Be grateful_ you bid yourself. _All of these kids would have died without your intervention. Every one. _This way, you’re saving some. And that’s miles better than anything you've ever done in your life. Think of all the Markets you ignored. All the Markets you avoided, and tried not to think about. This time, _this time_, you’re changing things. It’s invigorating. You spring from one cage to the next, heart hammering, terrified at any moment of getting caught while simultaneously vibrating with adrenaline. 

Lock after lock drops to the floor. Six is working from the back of the pile of cages, which makes the most sense - if she works at the front, the Fetcher would spot her as soon as he came in. This does mean that the kids in the front are probably doomed. You don’t think about that, instead trying to revel in the number of locks that Six leaves like a trail behind her. Each one represents one freed person. 

The vast majority of them run right out the back of the tent. You don’t know what will happen to them. The important thing is they have a chance where they didn’t before. Some kids, though, they stick around Six. Follow her from cage to cage like lost ducklings. 

You’re somewhere close to the top of the tower of cages, when the kids near the front of the pile start getting really rowdy. They’ve figured out how things are working, maybe; that they’re not going to be freed. Their sobbing and yelling grows in pitch, until it’s not unlike a chant filling the tent from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. It’s a cacophony of madness. You’re too scared to get nearer to the front to shush them (you’re not sure it would work anyway), so instead throw a helpless look down at Six. She gazes up at nearly the same time, and you make eye contact. Silently, you agree. You’ve done your part. It’s getting too dangerous. 

As if right on cue, the Fetcher’s voice grows louder outside the tent, bemoaning about how noisy they’re getting, that he’ll “give them something to cry about.”

Time’s up. 

You shimmy down the cages fast as a bunny, passing face after distraught face. There’s nothing more you can do for them. The tent entrance flares open. You glimpse lumpy distended flesh, like it’s melted and reworked into something that only vaguely resembles a human hand (but with far, far too many fingers), before you leap off the crates and hit the floor. The Fetcher bellows. He definitely caught a glimpse of you. Six’s hand fits into yours, then you’re both off running, with a good three or four other kids wheeling after you. Behind you, cages fall and crack open like eggs in the Fetcher’s fury. He bursts from the tent in hot pursuit; his pounding feet shake the ground under your feet.

The group of you are running for your lives at this point. Something blurs in the corner of your vision, strikes the ground with an angry screech, slides, and then you blaze past it. A cage, twisted nearly beyond recognition. Blessedly empty, and it had blessedly missed all of you - if only barely. 

You duck a sharp left, tripping over a particularly small boy. Six hauls you up from the stumble and you’re off again, but the Fetcher’s close behind, his heavy breath almost all you can hear. You’re going to die. You should never have entered the tent, you’re going to die - 

“Oh, look, a few have gotten loose-"  Rapturous laughter explodes. Men and women look on, like it’s some cartoon show, while the Fetcher hunts you to your deaths. Some commentate, some jibe, a few wonderingly mutter if they should help the Fetcher out. Your own lives are being treated as entertainment. 

“Bravo!” Someone cries, timed right when one of the children is captured. You know it without looking because you hear their scream, hear it rise up into the sky and end in a strangled squawk. Those many many fingers can crush a child so, so easily. Many onlookers cheer.

This is bad, this is so bad. 

Six yanks on your hand hard enough to nearly wrench your shoulder from its socket. She points, and you see it, too: a thin crack just under someone’s deck. Somewhere the Fetcher won’t fit.  It’s a long shot, but it’s about all you’ve got. You pour on the speed while the Fetcher thunders after. Every one of you dives under the deck, hits the dirt and starts scrambling to get in to safety.  


Not all of you make it. 

You look back just in time to see Six’s eyes, round and wild, as she - along with one of the kids - is brutally yanked from under the deck. It happens so fast. In an instant, and without a sound. Then she’s gone. Your heart is in your throat. You can’t process it. You barely believe it.

The Fetcher’s many jointed fingers return to slip under the deck again, hunting for more prizes. You, and two children, cower back, out of his lengthy reach, but it’s just your body responding on auto-pilot, while your mind churns. 

It sounds stupid, but part of you had almost believed Six would never be caught. Of anyone, she wouldn’t. Because she just - seemed so much more knowledgable, so much more clever. She’d been at this for way longer than you. But of course, realistically, she’d always been in the same amount of danger. No matter how much practice someone had, it was never safe. And now the Fetcher had got her. 

Giving up the hunt, the Fetcher withdraws his hand. His stomping feet grow distant. The crowd welcomes him back with laughter and praise. You lay there, smudged with dirt, panting and shivering. You stare helplessly at the crack where a thin slat of sunlight pours through. 

They took Six.

Oh God, what are you going to do?


	6. Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hasn’t been made clear but in this story, Mono is a bit older than almost all the other kids. Closer to adulthood, more indoctrinated. That’s why he has bigger issues talking than the other kids do, and bigger issues with the televisions.

The boy and girl that escaped with you tug on your arms, and hiss angrily. They’re trying to get you to budge, or to do anything at all. You’re just… numb. Like your emotions and body have turned to hot liquid and it’s all melting through a sieve. You can’t move. You stare at the thin slat of sunlight, struggling to comprehend that Six isn’t by your side anymore.

Normally, friendships are thin and fleeting in this world - gone quick as vapor; trodden to extinction. But nothing about Six is normal, and neither is your friendship. It’s impossible to put into words. Someone looking in from the outside might think you were being ridiculous, devastated over a person you’d only known a few days. They’d be fiercely mistaken. Six had carried you through almost every moment of your brief freedom. You’d looked after each other. Trusted each other with your lives. You had plans to change things together. 

Now…. now… 

It’s all cut short. 

You never even made it to the Signal Tower. Not even close. 

All you can see is Six’s eyes, full of terror. She’d known what was going to happen to her, the second she was grabbed. She’d seen it happen a hundred times over, and it was her turn. That’s what her eyes had said, and it was haunting. 

“_Hey_!” The little girl smacks your arm hard enough to sting.

Blinking dumbly, you look at her, not processing.

“Aren’t you coming?” She demands.

Coming… where? Going where? What?

She spells it out like you’re incompetent, “Running. From. Market. Market. Bad. Place.” She points to the boy, who’s already slithering towards the other side of the deck on his elbows and knees. In a normal voice, she adds, “Aren’t you coming?”

They’re abandoning Six. It shouldn't sound weird, because to them, Six is just another kid. There’s hundreds of kids. Thousands. Why bother? Six isn’t worth risking their lives for, even though that’s _exactly_ what she did for them. That’s what they’re thinking. It isn't what you're thinking. To you, Six _isn’t_ just another kid.

“_Helloo_,” the girl waves her hand in front of your face. 

“No,” you say, startling yourself.

“What?”

If you don’t do something, Six won’t make it to the end of the day. “I’m going back.”

The girl looks at you like you’re insane. Actually, you _are_ insane. You have no plan. You’re dizzy and you can hardly believe what you’re saying. It’s weird how despite that, you’ve never been more certain about anything in your life. You're _not_ going to ditch Six when she needs you the most. “I’m going back,” you repeat, as if confirming it to yourself. 

“_Hurry!_” the boy hisses from the shadows.

“You’re sure?” The girl regards you one final time, bewildered. Your actions are incomprehensible to her. This isn’t a world that favors heroism. You aren’t taught it in School. It isn’t on TV. In this world, there’s just obedience, and there’s fear. She can't understand risking her own life for someone else. At this point, you can't fathom doing anything but that. 

So you nod, firmly. 

She's not going to stick around to find out your fate. Both of them slip out the other side of the deck, and then you’re alone.

You swallow hard. It’s decided, then. You are going to the Market. Again. Your body trembles, but you gather all the pieces of yourself together, as best you can. Usually, you’re a planning sort of person. You like to sit back and think about stuff before doing anything. Thing is, Six doesn’t have time right now. Any minute, she could be the next on the table, if she hasn’t been killed already. That thought makes you sick, but galvanizes you to leave. Your fingers claw in the dirt as you wriggle your way out from the under the deck, back into the glaring morning sun.

As you’re standing, your foot kicks something small but heavy. Frowning, you look down. It’s silver, squarish. Glinting.

_A lighter_. Instinctively, you grab it, and feel the cool grey metal. It’s dinged up all around, but when you flick it open, a flame obediently bursts to life. This might come in handy. You pocket it in your coat, then look towards the Market.  It begins a good five-ish houses away from where you’re currently standing. The sordid event is in full swing: people are jam-packed from one side of the street to the other, and flanked by numerous white-canvased tents and booths. Everyone is jovial and sickeningly happy to be squashed in like sardines. From this distance, they all blend into one horrid ever-shifting mass, like a fleshy insect with hundreds of churning legs. 

Deep down, part of you wonders if your mother is in that mass. You don’t want to know the answer.

All you know is you’ll need to get closer. Can't do anything from here. Your bare feet sting on the crumbled edge of the concrete road as you approach. You may have torn them up running from the Fetcher, and only just now noticed. That’s something you can worry about later. Sticking to shadows where you can, following trenches beside the road, you diminish the distance, and the smell heightens, foul and reeking of death.  The closer you get, the slower you go, and the more cautiously you watch, until you’re kneeling behind porch stairs, just outside the event. Many of the booths are dripping blood, and trash is littered _everywhere. _There’s TVs, too, each flashing the same series of patterns and numbers. Each humming. Many people are watching them, some people are simply cheering and celebrating around them. Everyone is influenced by them. Even from afar, the TVs set dread in your heart. There’s a suspicion deep in you, that you carry your mother’s same susceptibility to them. That one day, one day… your mind is going to sleep to their song. 

You’ve got enough going on to know that day isn’t today. Regardless, there’s a concerning thing about TVs: everyone thinks they look at them, but really, the TVs often look back. And these ones set up in the Market are facing every which way. Stacked on top of each other. Left right up down. Little mini towers keeping watch at every corner, facing everything, everyone. You do not belong in the Market: runaways only make it to the Market in a cage or on a butcher’s block. The TVs will know that right away. 

If you're going to enter (and you are), you need some way to conceal your face. Six had the right idea, with a hood, but your clothes don’t have that. You could put your coat over your head, except that would be ridiculous and impractical. You grind your teeth into your lip hard enough to sting, frustrated. You shouldn't be stalling this much. You _aren’t_ stalling. You’re just trying to be smart, and not run in and get yourself caught right away. Even so, it’s frustrating that seconds are ticking by and you’re doing nothing, and Six is in danger - 

Your eyes drift to all the trash littered at people’s feet, and overflowing from cans. 

_No _-

There’s not a whole lot of options otherwise, though. Crouching low, you creep to the nearest trash bin. On the other side, big feet stomp back and forth. Their voices are so, so loud. 

Slowly, you inch around the bin, which in itself rears up high above you, its mouth vomiting trash and refuse. Then, even taller, the people. Their chins wobble in laughter. You can see up their noses, and see the bottoms of expensive purses, runs in tights, scuffs on shoes. Everyone dresses to the nines. Nobody but the kids notice the hand-sewn seams, the little repair jobs, the nicks and smudges out of sight. Everybody’s got them; nobody admits to them. It doesn’t matter to you. What matters is that these people are mere inches away. If anyone were to look down, they’d see you instantly. That’s how close you are. How badly hidden. _Make this quick._

Holding your breath, you dive to the spilled trash, and begin rifling through frantically. There’s crinkled foil, plastic, cans, _bones_ \- euck. You don’t want to touch those, but they’re everywhere. Stomach churning with disgust, you shuffle through the bones and try very, very hard not to think about where they came from. Finally, you stumble on a crinkled paper bag, mostly in-tact, soggy on one corner. It’s the only usable thing you've found, so you snatch it and dart behind the trash can again. 

Once you're more or less safely hidden, you fluff it out into proper paper bag shape, and double check to make sure there’s nothing unsavory on the inside. Next, you tear out two eye holes, somewhat messily. There. A mask of some sort. Different than the masks children in the School wear, different than what the adults wear. Not an approved mask, but a mask, and one that will hopefully keep the TVs from seeing you. Before you put it on, you stare at the blank eyed paper bag. Your mask. Your face.

(You don’t have to do this. You could run away, and leave Six.)

The paper bag is on your head in the next second. It’s scratchy, and stuffy. It makes your breath sound especially loud in your ears, and you feel a little bit stupid. The important thing is, it’ll do the trick. Probably.

First thing’s first - you have to find Six. The first place to look is the Fetcher’s tent, which is luckily nearest you, since it’s at the very edge of the Market. Keeping your body suctioned tight to the side of the trash can, you peer around the corner cautiously. The people may be unobservant, but the Fetcher isn’t. You do your best to lean out only a tiny fraction, enough so that one eye can rove and take in what’s going on. 

The Fetcher’s out front now, his large teeth gleaming. In his many-fingered hand, he’s clutching a squirming child, and bargaining a price with a few tipsy-looking ladies. Six isn’t in sight. Not on his table, not in his hand, not anywhere by his booth. 

Maybe she was caged in his tent? The last thing you want to do is get within the Fetcher’s proximity, but you don’t have much of a choice. You take a long route, retreating all the way back to the store, looping behind the Market, and only then slipping into the tent in the same place that you and Six had entered earlier. 

The place is wrecked now. A lot of cages are spilled all over, many bent and banged up, probably from the Fetcher’s initial lunge towards you, when he knocked a bunch of them over. Your eyes scour the cages. If you could just glimpse her yellow coat within the bars… she could probably teach you how to pick the lock… 

No luck, though. No sight of her. 

“You!” A child materializes behind their bars, eyes big. “You’re the one that helped save the others!”

“Shh!” 

“Look, let me out, too! I don’t wanna die! I don’t-!”

Feeling ill, you slip out of the tent, and bolt behind the store, in case the ruckus alerts the Fetcher. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of its chest. All your life, you knew these things were going on. Being so close to it… it disturbs you beyond belief. You don’t have the stomach for this. It was easier, not thinking about it. Not looking their way. Not acknowledging. 

(It’s easier, you think, when you listen to the TV’s. To not think about the kids-)

Growling, you shake your head. Focus.

Six wasn’t with them. So what had the Fetcher done with her? He didn’t - wouldn’t have - she can’t be dead -

No. You’ll keep looking. It’s not safe to hang around the Fetcher’s tent anyway. Maybe he sold her. She might be at another tent. You creep a few tents down, and peer out. Here is more in the middle of things. Nauseatingly congested. It’s impossible to see through the throngs of people: you'll need to get higher up to have any hope of seeing _anything_. 

These delays aggravate you. You feel like you’re wasting so much time running in circles, accomplishing nothing, while any second Six’s life could be ended.

Up. You have to get up somehow. You could climb the Shopkeeper’s eaves, but that’s close to the start of the Market, and won’t give you a good overview of everything. For a moment, you contemplate trying to ascend one of the tent poles, but that seems impossible. Anyway, someone would be sure to notice your dark coat against the off-white tent. 

As you’re deliberating, your eyes settle on one of the stacks of TVs. You could climb those. 

No. Bad idea. 

But nobody would notice you, would they? Anyone looking in the direction of the TVs is fixated on them. They wouldn't notice a thing. 

Only, you’ll get fixated on them, too.

_Not if I fight it._

It doesn’t work that way.

_What choice do I have?_

Glass bites into the soles of your feet as you tread out, trailing the masses of black cords. Now you’re really in the thick of things, dodging shoes and filth and bones. Praying nobody looks down. Always with your eyes faithfully fixed upon the cords. Not that you’d necessarily need the visuals to guide you. The humming blooms in your heart and plays with your head.

_Six. We’re here to find Six, _you remind yourself. 

Your mother is probably here, too. You might find her. 

_She isn’t your mother anymore. _

You reach the misshapen stack of televisions, some broken, some not, all facing a full three hundred and sixty degrees. You slip into a crack between two, and end up in the center of the electronic mass. Like the eye of a storm, in a confined space with the backs of dozens of televisions enclosing you and going up up up 

The humming is painfully loud, a heavy static penetrating your skull and muddling your thoughts.

You rest a hand on the warm black casing. It seems alive under your hand. 

_Climb, you need to climb._

Why?

_Climb!_

You’re having a hard time remembering why you’re here. How you got here, even. Does it matter?

_Six. Six Six Six_

It takes a colossal mental effort to recall what that word means to you. All around, the fuzziness of the TVs presses in, like soft cottony warmth. Every individual thought is a battle. 

_Climb._

You leverage your foot into the slats behind a TV, and haul yourself up.

Aren’t you tired? You’ve fought so hard. You’ve done more than anyone could have expected. Nobody would blame you if you stopped here. 

Soon you’re standing on one TV. Your fingers loop into the slats of another. Up. 

You _are_ tired. Even lifting your hand above your shoulder seems like a wearisome, impossible task. When you tilt your head up, you see a seemingly endless black wall of TVs reaching to the sky. It’ll take you forever to get to the top.  Despair sinks in to your stomach. It’s weird how an emotion considered so negative can feel so comforting. So palliative. Like it wants to soothe aside any pain or unhappiness. And it’d be so, so easy to let go of those unpleasant things. 

Your eyes slip shut, and you lean against the warm metal of the TV. The lighter in your pocket clacks against the metal. 

The thought of a bright yellow raincoat tears through your murky thoughts. 

_Climb. _

_Fight!_

Why?

You nearly scream in frustration. Your mind is somewhere in this abyss, you can feel it, tearing at the sludge and trying to come through. It’s terrifying how strong the force is holding you down. How much that force seems like you. But it’s not you. It’s this sickness, this disease that infiltrates. 

Climb, climb - 

You wish you could say there was one definitive moment where you chose to fight its influence off. One moment where you thrust aside the soothing hum and was therefore able to ascend uninhibited. That isn’t the truth, though. Every single step, you struggle. You have to make the decision, a thousand times over, to keep moving. 

Then your hand slaps down on the highest TV. It felt like forever, but it couldn't have been very long at all. The sun isn’t yet at midday, although sweat is sticking the bag to your forehead. 

You made it. It takes a second, with your brain half-mired in the comforting buzz of the TV’s, to remember why you were here at all - fortuitously, it’s easier to think atop the pile of TV’s. 

Six. You need to find Six. The sooner the better. 

You peek over the television, so just the top of the bag and the eyeholes are visible. It’s eerie to see dozens of eyes staring back at you. Of course, none of these people are actually looking at you and none of them notice you, as you suspected. Their gazes are latched upon the TVs. But since you’re so close, it looks like they’re staring at you. A whole crowd. Slack-jawed. Fixated. You shudder, and avert your own gaze, choosing instead to scan the blood-stained stands, the plates piled high with choice cuts, the butcher’s blocks littered with severed limbs, and then the piles of tiny clothes tossed into bins. (Those bins you scour with extra dread, terrified of finding her clothes there). 

But nothing. No Six.

Frantically, you try again. So many people. So many faces. Masks. Cages and crates and blood and limbs and -

Then you catch a flash of yellow. 

_Six!_

Your gaze jerks back.

You hadn't noticed at first, because other bodies were blocking the sight. But there's a cage dangling by a chain above a booth, very very close to you. Like some kind of weird prize. And within it, two small bodies, both hunched up. 

One of them is unmistakable. It’s her; it’s Six. She’s alive. Oh my god, she’s alive. You nearly sob in relief, the intensity of the emotion like a wave through your body. She's alive. For a moment, that's all that matters, and you slump against the TV, a loose smile of pure relief on your face. The lighter clacks against the metal again and digs unpleasantly against your thigh. You don't care. You don't care about the lighter, or the TVs, about the pain in your sliced up feet. Don't care about anything at all except that she's alive. You can still save her. You can still get her out of this horrible Market. 

Bizarrely, whimsically, you wish you could let her know you’re here. That she doesn’t have to look so miserable, because you’re going to free her (you hate seeing her miserable). 

There’s no way to alert her without alerting everyone else, though. Better move on to the actual escape plan. Which... is....

Dread seeps in. _How_ are you going to free her? She's caged. Not stacked hidden in back, either, but hung up for everyone’s perusal. Anything you try will be noticed immediately. 

While your brain chugs through options, each more futile than the last, your gaze lingers on Six. She’s pressed against one edge of the cage, arms wrapped around her legs, while the other kid sits in the very center, gazing out hopelessly. Several people are flocked around them both, poking with sticks and jeering. For fun. They’re laughing, making a game out of it.

It’s sickening. 

At first, you don’t understand why the other kid is sitting in the middle of the cage, while Six is, unfairly, at the very edge. It’s a tiny observation, but it’s distressing, because Six’s position means that people have a much easier time poking her with sticks or even their fingers. It bothers you, seeing her get harassed like that, but she’s making no effort to move away.

Couldn’t they both sit in the middle?

Then, almost imperceptible to your eyes, Six’s fingers clench over her sides. Her head hangs lower. Although you can’t hear it, not from here, you can easily imagine the sharp hiss released through her teeth. You’ve seen the signs enough to know what’s going on: she's hungry. 

Red hot rage unfurls in your chest. It makes sense now, why Six is sitting at the very edge of the cage. She’s hungry, so she doesn’t want to be in close physical proximity to the other kid, but these people are forcing them together. Trapping them together. Whether they know about Six’s strange appetite or not, you’re furious at them. For capturing Six. For trapping her. For putting her in this horrible situation, where she has no choice but to fight her own body’s needs.

That only emphasizes what you already know: you have to get them out, and get Six something else to eat. _Quickly_. 

Actually achieving that is a challenge. It’s not like you’re hiding behind the Fetcher’s back, or sneaking on the outskirts of the Market - both which are dangerous enough tasks. Six is out in the open. They’re actively toying with her, even (which still makes you disgusted and furious). 

You can’t run up to her. You couldn’t get anywhere close to her without getting caught. It’s impossible. 

The TVs hum.

Think. Think. 

No ideas come to you. The people aren’t going to leave Six alone until the Market’s over - at which point, she isn’t going to be alive (and the kid next to her definitely won’t be). The only option is getting their attention away somehow. Getting them to leave Six alone. 

You sweat, and deliberate. It’s almost worse, being this close to her and yet being unable to do anything. It makes you feel helpless, useless. 

Then you shift, and feel something heavy in your pocket. The lighter. You’d almost forgotten.

The... lighter. Fire.

A dreadful idea settles in your skull. A very wicked sort of idea that would have the Teacher in fits to hear. 

It would be… a distraction. Pulling their attention away, all right. Without a doubt. Your throat is dry with nerves, but, hidden behind the paper bag, a smile twitches at your lips. You really are insane. This is the conclusion you come to before you duck back behind the televisions, and you’re scrambling down them so fast that this time, this time their hum is nothing but background noise.

You have a plan to execute. 


	7. Market

In hindsight, your plan isn’t much of a plan. It’s not really a plan at all. Just a lot of fire.

It’s worth noting that you were always the good kid. The one that never stepped out of line at School, the one that helped out willingly with chores at home, the one that stuck to the strait and narrow. A mama’s boy, some jeeringly claimed. Maybe you were. In reality, you just never saw the motivation for disobeying: punishments were hefty, mercy rare, and well - you thought if you played along, if you were good, then maybe you'd be better off, and the people around you would be happier.

Now here you are, seconds away from setting the Market ablaze.

Things change. Given enough time to dwell on it, you might regret it, because change is frightening, whether bad or good. But Six is out of time. You can’t see her anymore, not from your position on the ground across the street: her cage is obscured by a mass of towering bodies. The fear of anything bad happening to her makes you rush past second thoughts or doubts. You either hurry and save her or -

Or -

You don’t want to think about it.

With fear in your heart, the lighter clicks. A little fire won’t cut it. You’ll need something big enough that they will evacuate, something big enough that it’ll give you time to free Six and her new friend. You touch the lithe flame to the corner of a tent’s canvas, where it laps thoughtfully, as if deciding whether it wants to devour or not. One second. Two. Three-

Making its choice, the fire leaps upon the fabric, and roars up so fast that you’re staggering backward and gasping from the sudden, blazing heat, and the blinding brightness. It feels like it’s burning through your clothes, even though it isn’t, and you’re shocked, dumbstruck. The whole wall of the tent becomes a column of fire in no time at all. _Move. You need to move._ Stick around this close to the fire, and you'll get burned.

You’re off like a shot. Through booths you recklessly run, dodging the shoes of vendors and setting fire to what you can. Is this too much? Too little? How can you tell? If you do too little, the people will easily put it out, the Market will resume, and you won’t free Six… So it’d be better to overdo it, if anything.

Something you find strange is that the response from everyone else is bizarrely delayed. You’ve already set fire to a second tent before people properly realize the first one is burning, and you’re onto the third before there’s any reaction aside from shock and mumbled surprise. By the fourth, the roaring flames have incited screams. It's like someone flicked a switch. The panic catches on, and masses of individuals surge away from the heat like one monstrous entity, howling. From your perspective, it’s hard to get a good idea of what’s going on. All you know is there’s the heat and the yelling and the stomping cacophony of confused feet, and it’s abruptly, intensely, stressful. Your heart hammers, panicked for reasons you’re having trouble articulating. You’re not afraid of getting caught, or even really of getting trampled, because you’re lurking inside booths rather than out in the streets. There’s just an infectious primal terror in the air, invoked by the leaping fire and the screaming people and jostling bodies. You’re scared by your own actions, and the result of them. Nobody will actually get hurt, right? You click the lighter shut, unnerved, and tuck it back in your pocket. What you did already is surely enough...

Skittering through several booths, you emerge close to the TVs you had climbed, and look down the length of the street. People are squashed up against each other, no room to move, or even to breathe. They’re all trying to flee, only nobody’s getting anywhere, and the flames are billowing higher, smoke clogging the air. The people are just pressing against each other, clawing like animals, faces twisted in fear, eyes blown wide. Some are climbing over others just to get away; kicking, elbowing, and shoving their own peers. It’s like the fire’s made them lose all sense.

You don’t understand. Why aren’t they properly evacuating? If they just stayed calm, they could all march out and there wouldn’t be any problem - but the scene is the opposite of calm.

What did you _do_?

There’s a hollow panic in the pit of your stomach, the awful awful feeling of having made an unforgivable mistake, and it’s too late to rectify it. You just wanted to scare them away long enough to rescue Six. You didn’t want to do any serious damage. The fire has its own agenda, leaping to tents that you hadn’t even lit yourself. Its long orangey arms are reaching for the crowd, too. You feel ill. You didn't want anyone to get hurt.

One small kid can’t do anything to staunch the fire, or redirect this madness. (Maybe Six would know some way to stop this?) You can only do what you came here to do.

Sick to your stomach, you circle around the back of the Market. Here, tides of individuals are stumbling out of the street in streams, coughing. It’s relieving to see some are managing to escape. You dodge shoes and sweeping clothes, until someone’s toe slams into your ribs and you hit the ground hard, gasping for breath. Fortunately, people are too caught up in the danger to bother with a small child.

You climb to your feet, clutching your sore ribs, and keep going, haggardly winding your way to Six’s booth. The vendor here is gone, leaving you free to leap onto his chair, and from there, climb onto the white-sheeted table. The noise of the fire and people are by this point deafening, and it takes a massive effort not to look towards the chaos. Focus.

Swaying above your head is the metal cage. You need to get up there somehow. Think, think, think. Your eyes trace the chain, which is looped twice over in the ceiling poles and then trails down to the table. It’ll have to work. You leap, and hook your fingers in the chains. The harsh metal is painful on your fingers and toes, but you manage to climb along the chain until you get to the cage, where your toes land on the cage bottom through the bars. You cling to the bars, and gaze inside.

“Six,” you breathe.

She looks really, really bad. She’s hunched up at the opposite side of the cage, her arms tight around her stomach. She doesn’t even respond to you.

The other kid with her - you think he’s a boy, though he’s very very small, so it’s hard to tell - he's keeping his distance, watching Six warily. It’s impossible to miss the danger resonating from Six, and he seems to grasp that he’s not safe, even if he doesn’t understand why. As soon as you drop down, his head jerks to you, and his eyes are wild. He says nothing, just staring as if he can’t comprehend why you’re here.

This is one of those moments, where you need to say the right words - to comfort Six, to get her lockpick, to free them and get Six food. A crucial moment. Your throat sticks.

“Who-who are you?” the boy finally speaks, “You know her?”

“I’m Mono," your throat unsticks enough to say. Then, with momentum, "Six, can you hear me?" You cringe at how your diminutive voice is drowned by the mayhem behind you. “Six! _Six_!”

She lifts her head; her starving eyes gleam from beneath the shadow of her hood. She looks like someone on the very verge of losing control, someone who probably should have snapped five minutes ago and it's a miracle they’re still holding out. You almost don’t notice the shadows, subtle as they are - shadows that cling unnaturally to her, that swirl lazily around her body and slither over her raincoat like a living organism. At first you think it’s smoke, but it’s not, and it doesn’t make sense either way-

Her gaze slides to the boy, like a predator’s to prey, and your nerves fray. “No - nonono, Six, Six-“

She flicks her eyes back. They latch onto you with a look both desperate and terrifying. _What am I supposed to do? _that look conveys. _I’m starving. _It destroys you; you wish a thousand times over that you hadn’t made her throw up. 

“Listen, we need the lockpick,” you say hurriedly. You have to get her out of this cage. Now.

“H-hey, what’s wrong with her?” interrupts the nervous, wavering voice of the boy. He kicks away a shadow that’s licking at his ankles. “Look, let me out-“ 

You can’t make sense of what you’re seeing with those shadows, but there isn’t time to dwell on it. Instead, you hold Six’s gaze, like it’ll anchor her. “Lockpick. Then I can get you anything you want to eat. Anything.” That promise is weak. She’s already got what she wants caged with her, and what can you possibly provide? It’s a immense show of her faith in you that she withdraws from her sleeve the hair pin she’d used to open the other cages.

_Yes_. Yes, yes, good. You quickly shimmy along the bars sideways until you’re right up next to her. To tell the truth, it sets your nerves on edge to be this close when she’s this hungry. Holding your breath, you stick your hand through the bars. “Okay,” you remind her, quavering. Your hand is inches away from her. Closer still to the undulating shadows. She’s shaking faintly. You wonder, terrified, what it would feel like to have her teeth rip your hand open. Instead, she sets the hair pin into your palm. She doesn't even look at you. 

You don’t waste a second side-stepping away until you’re at the thick metal lock of the cage.

Lockpicking. Right. Never a better time to learn. Your hands are shaking, and when you fit the pin into the lock you nearly drop it, which sets your heart thundering so hard you’re half convinced you’re going to have a heart attack. Six is the best person to be doing this, except she’s in no condition to get up, and even if she could, she wouldn't be able to reach the lock. It's up to you.

The boy caged with Six plasters himself against the bars next to you. “What’s wrong with her?” He asks again, full of fear, “why did you look at her like that?”

“_Shh_.” You need to focus. Can’t spend a moment thinking about what will happen if you don’t succeed. Fiercely, you regret not watching Six more closely when she was doing this. You could have learned something.

“Can’t you go any faster?” the boy hisses tightly.

“I’m trying,” you snap back. Maybe if you twist it this way… or that way? Up? Down? Horizontal? What is the technique? No, useless, stupid - you’re not achieving anything aside from fumbling pointlessly with the pin. Behind you, the heat of fire is rippling across your back. From the cage, meanwhile, thickening shadows drip and ooze. A sob sticks in your throat. C'mon - something has to work!

“Hurry!” The boy yells at you.

You’re trying, you’re trying, you just don’t have any idea what you’re doing -

"Do you know how to do this?" you blurt.

"No, why would I-" he cuts off quickly, then his tone takes a thin, high edge, "_H-hurry!_" 

This is the moment where you're supposed to get the lock in the nick of time. Where you save both of them, and find Six something else to eat. Instead, you snarl, “I’m _trying_!” and it's the last thing you ever say to him. 

In the next second, his silhouette is yanked away from the bars, too fast for him to even scream. The cage rattles violently; smoke-shadows churn eagerly like a tightly wound ball of snakes, and icy horror engulfs you. There’s an organic crunching, the splatter of liquid.

_No_\- 

Within the cage, the boy emits garbled blood-clogged words that slur together, “pleage, nuh nuh-pleage ge’off-nh-“

_He's alive in there, keep going! If you get the lock now, you can still save him!_

Yes. Yes, that makes sense. Your frenetic attempts are clumsier than before, your hands shaking so hard they're almost useless. 

_Hurry hurry hurry_

He devolves into burbling nonsense - wordless, senseless, the whimpers of a dying creature. Eating begins in earnest: wet crunching, heavy rapturous breathing. Your fingers slip on the hair pin, then fall away and grab the bars for support, dizziness coursing through you. The boy isn’t speaking anymore. He won’t speak again. Your eyes are fixed on the lock, although you’re not seeing it, not really. You just need something to look at. Anything except for what’s going on in the cage.

You weren’t fast enough. You’re too late.

Your lungs expand, contract. Breathe. Breathe.

You’re shivering. Cold, despite the fire. Tears feel hot on your cheeks.

Too late. Too late.

Your forehead touches the bars as you draw in a trembling breath.Somewhere through the ringing in your ears, the sounds of eating slow down and stop. She’s done. Quick, just like that.

You’re too late.


	8. School

The world has always been a dark one, haunted by the disappearances and deaths of others your age, until there were only so many left: the ones that fell in line, that got their masks, and that will some day grow up. So it isn’t like you’re unfamiliar with the idea of your peers dying, in horrible ways and for horrible reasons. Sometimes, you even witnessed it yourself, when coming to the Market with your mother, or when passing the butcher’s. Familiarity with the idea of a child’s death doesn’t make this one any easier, though, especially on the heels of you changing your mind about them. See, when you were in School, before you knew better, there’d always been this cruel idea of “them versus you.” That the kids in cages belonged there, or brought it upon themselves, because all they had to do was obey the rules to _not_ end up there. That’s the lie that everyone fed you. Believing in it meant a lot of denial and a lot of suppressed emotions, but it worked, for a time. Now, a runaway yourself, there is no “them versus you.” You understand a lot better. You’re all kids, every one, and none of you deserve to be killed. 

Yet this one was. It may have been Six who ended his life, but the guilt swirls in your stomach. She can’t help herself. It was _you_ that didn’t unlock the cage fast enough. _You_ that made her throw up. If you had just moved faster - if you hadn’t responded so irrationally before… 

Tears stick your cheeks to the bag, and drip from your jaw. A silent cry leaves your lips. It’s humiliating to think that earlier in this very day, you were helping Six free one kid after another, and you’d felt - felt - 

It’s stupid. Colossally stupid. You hate how stupid it is. 

But you’d felt like a _hero_. Felt like you making a _difference._

Now… now you feel empty, like all your insides have been scooped out. Nothing like a hero, more like a little kid that made decisions about who could live or die, when you had no right to. 

Six’s face appears at the bars, where the boy once stood. 

You meet her gaze, expecting to see reciprocal remorse and self-loathing, only to find she’s devoid of both those emotions. Instead, her eyes glint with a strange, wild energy that you’ve never seen in her before. She isn’t paralyzed by guilt, nor even touched by it. Somewhere in your molasses-stuffed skull, underneath all the reeling shock, the implication of that screams at you: her objectives aren’t remotely disturbed by the fact she just murdered and devoured another child. _She doesn’t feel bad at all._

That can’t be true, though - can it?

Your fingers drift over the lockpick. Maybe… maybe you _shouldn’t_ free her? 

As if reading your thoughts, shadows flare behind her. Instantly, you’re certain they’re going to attack you. Letting out a startled cry, your grip loosens on the cage, and then _crash! _you strike the table below. Air struggles to enter your lungs, while your dizzy gaze slings upwards to the hanging cage high above. Those dark shadows are slithering around the lock, and winding into the keyhole like leeches that have just found their prey. She wasn’t trying to attack you: she’s unlocking the cage. With the shadows. They’re under her command, evidently, if they aren’t just part of her to begin with. You’ve never seen them before in your life, yet there’s no denying her ease of controlling them, like she’s well accustomed to them. It’s an unnerving new side to her, and you’re beginning to really wish Six didn’t have so many new sides like that, because you liked when you thought she was just a regular kid. 

The lock clicks, and drops to the table after you, quickly followed by Six. She tucks the recovered hair pin back into her sleeve (why does she even need that?) then turns to you.

You shrink away, cowed. On some level, you justified her appetite to yourself by saying she couldn't help it, and didn’t want anything to do with it. After witnessing her eat, after seeing the aftermath, the shadows, and her lack of guilt - you don’t know what to believe. Maybe she is a monster. 

Whatever she is, she’s approaching.

“N-no-“ You don’t react in time before she takes your hand (blood sticky between your palms) and hauls you up onto noodle-like legs. Then she’s off, with you dragged gracelessly behind her. From the table to the chair, to the ground, dragging your staggering shell-shocked body along the whole way. Only out in the street do you remember the fire you had set, and the dangers that lay outside of Six. Around you, everything is chaos. People screaming, flesh burning, fire roaring. Sweat sticks the paper bag to your head, and your shirt to your back, but you still feel cold, cold, cold. You’re overly aware of the squelching blood between your hand and Six’s, and over and over your mind replays the boy’s screams, the brutal sounds of his slaughter. 

Conversely, Six might be your only hope of getting out of this alive, because without her guidance, you’d be petrified into inaction. Together you race through the Market, which is fully ablaze now, blistering bright. Six takes a straight path, unbothered by fire or falling debris. She seems to know exactly where she’s going, and that doesn’t make sense, because she’s a stranger to this town. Until now, she relied on you for directions and guidance. Not anymore. She also doesn’t bother worrying about anything striking you or her. All debris, all stray objects, all encroaching flame - all of it is chased back by those shadows, which still cling to Six. They’re protecting you and her.They _are_ hers. 

Nothing makes sense.

It’s easier not to think, for a bit. 

So Six guides. You follow.

* * *

In the library at the School, there’s a secret crawlspace under one of the bookshelves, large enough for maybe seven or eight kids to bunk out comfortably for an afternoon. Great care is taken to keep its presence secret from the Teacher, who would undoubtedly board it up the second she learned where students were sneaking off to. 

Six wasn’t raised in this town, and she never went to the School. So she should have no idea about the crawlspace. Nonetheless, that’s exactly - _directly_ -where she leads you. Up through the book return, dropping down on the library floor, then beelining right under the bookcase and into the crawlspace, as if she’d done it a hundred times. You file it away as another of the eerie mysteries surrounding Six, and obsessively wipe your bloodied palm on your coat the instant she releases your hand.

The hide-out is similar to what you remember: wooden-walled, a bit musty-smelling, two books stacked on one side as a chair. Some smuggled crayons, scribbles on the walls, a few toys, and crumpled paper. This was where kids go to be safe, even for only a moment. Here, no adult will find you. Unfortunately, the Market is too fresh in your mind for you to relax. You might be safe from the adults, and the televisions, but - are you supposed to ignore what you had seen? What you had heard? (What you had done?) Are you supposed to forget that a kid died because of you and Six? 

Speaking of, she hangs close to the entrance. She’s got a peculiar look on her face, a familiar question in her eyes, _what’s your verdict on me? _

It’s like she’s waiting for you to kick her out. To say, nope, no, this is too much, leave. The idea of you having any power over her is hilariously unrealistic, but based on her look, she’d obey if you asked her to leave. Whatever you wanted. A nervous smile flits at your lips and you avoid her eyes. You don’t know what you want. Your heart is going a mile a minute, and you feel jumpy, disturbed. It occurs to you that someone’s ditched Six before. Her caution is too knowing for there to be any other explanation. Maybe multiple someone’s abandoned her, after learning about this aspect of her nature. So she’s expecting you to ditch her, too. 

It’s not like you have any intention of doing that, but you fail to articulate that, because realizing you still want to stay with her - well, it’s complicated. You don’t know what to say. Maybe it’s selfish, but you can’t really think about her feelings right now. You’re way too preoccupied with your own distress. On edge, you pace back and forth with the little space allotted. There’s so much to think about that your brain never lingers long on one subject, leaping from the murdered kid, to the fire, to the people screaming, to the shadows and Six’s uncanny powers - back to the fire, the screaming-

Worse still, you don’t think that kid was the only person who had died. Adults may have, too. They weren’t evacuating properly; some were likely caught in the inferno. If that’s not bad enough, the horrible thought drifts in, _there were still kids in cages, too._ In the Fetcher’s tent, in other tents, there were kids. Trapped, when everything was set ablaze. Vivid images of children cooking alive within their cages, banging futilely on the bars while the fire devours them, leap into your mind, and that’s it for your queasy stomach. 

Six leaps back when you vomit, and then you’re crying again. You feel so pathetic, and so disgusted (so disgusting). You’ve done horrible things today, under the mistaken belief you were doing something good. Six shouldn't be awaiting your judgement - you should be awaiting _hers_. Your nails dig into your forearm as you sob, simultaneously frustrated at yourself for falling apart, and helpless to stop it. 

Kindly, her hands grasp your sleeve, and you let yourself be led to the books, where you sit miserably. While you feel sorry for yourself, and for everything you did, she runs out out of the crawlspace twice. The first time she comes back with paper towels and some water, and she scrubs up the vomit until it’s gone. That only makes you feel worse, because it was you that did it, and she’s cleaning up but - you can barely think straight, much less stand up and help.

By the time Six arrives back a second time, the tears have mostly abated, just leaving exhausted humiliation. Your eyes must be red-swollen and dead. Thankfully, Six doesn’t waste time pointing that out. Her hands and mouth, you notice, are clean now, and she hands you a bread roll and a small child-sized cup of water. You take the items gratefully, though warily. With your head clearing, you can’t help noticing that she moves different than she did before. It’s subtle, but undeniable: she moves with a certain energy, an excitement, vivacity. The interpretation is simple and disturbing at once: eating that child made her feel alive, like nothing else could or would. 

You shudder. (But what does it matter? You did worse than her.)

A sip of cool water eases your throat and helps wash away the taste of vomit. The water sloshes a bit with your shaking. 

Six darts out a third time. How is she staying safe? How does she know where to go, and where to get supplies? How did she know to come here?Groaning, you put the water to your forehead, and wish you could stop your thoughts. This had all been a disaster. If only you could sleep and forget all of it. 

Six trots in, rolling a bottle of rubbing alcohol and wearing a washcloth like a weird cape. Confusion crosses your face. Why does she have that…?

Full of purpose, she kneels by your feet, and gently picks one up. Startled, you almost yank your foot out of her grip, but hers is a very strong grip. You’re becoming certain she possesses an uncanny strength no other child her age does.

It’s only then that, blinking through tear-blurred vision, you realize your feet are drenched in blood. Another surge of shock pulses through you. Did you step in blood? Then you come to terms with the fact the blood is your own. In fact, the bottoms of your feet are torn to hell. Vaguely you recall running over shattered glass at one point through the Market. Funny thing is, you… hadn’t really noticed at the time. It’s weird how something like that can go by without notice for so long, because the cuts look deep, freakishly deep. Dangerously deep. How did you not see that before? Or _feel_ it? Only now that you see the wound does it actually begin hurting, and _bad_. 

She opens the rubbing alcohol cap and lets some of it spill on the cloth, before pressing it to one foot.

The pain explodes, a vicious sting that can be felt all the way up your calf_. _Your expression contorts, and air hisses through your teeth, though you make little other noise. You’re a runaway, and noises mean danger. 

Six repeats this action several times. While grime and liquid drip down to the floor, the scouring burn in your feet digs deeper and deeper, until you’ve screwed your eyes shut and are taking measured breaths through the agony. If nothing else, it takes your mind off things. Pain scrawls all the way up to your thighs, and your nails dig into the book cover beneath you. Her finger catches the edge of a sliced skin flap, and pulls it back to douse alcohol inside the wound - though you know it’s necessary to rinse out the dirt, your teeth grind and you huff air through your nose, a faint whining rising from your throat. _Ow-ow-ow-_

As you recover, she sets aside the washcloth, and pulls gauze from her pocket. This she wraps gingerly around your feet and ankles, with the practiced air of someone who has had to treat many injuries. Her fingers are soft, in contrast to the sting of the alcohol, and she faithfully checks the bandages at several points to make sure they aren’t too tight. It’s an incredibly gentle and caring act, one you’re not sure you deserve. 

Finally, the task down, her hands settle into her lap, and she avoids your gaze. 

Silence. 

She gestures at the water and the bread roll. A nibble proves the roll is a bit stale, yet edible, and you take a few more small bites. 

Why is she taking care of you? Why tend to your wounds? Why feed you? She keeps her head bowed, like she’s expecting you to get mad at her. 

You set aside the bread. “I…” your voice cracks, raw from smoke, you try again, “I th-think… I think people died in the fire.”

She looks at you, inquisitive.

“I set it,” you add.

She’s still confused. 

Hoarse, full of dismay, “_it’s my fault_.” You don’t just mean the adults. The kid, too. All of it. 

It clicks. Six sweeps to your side immediately. A heartbeat hesitation, then her arms are wrapped around you. Maybe it’s messed up. She just killed someone. She still smells faintly of blood, even though she’s cleaned off. And you killed a lot of people, probably. Nothing really makes sense. 

So maybe it’s messed up, but you _need_ comfort. 

Without hesitation, you return the hug, and you squeeze her tiny frame tighter than anyone else would find comfortable. She doesn’t seem to mind at all. There aren’t any tears left to cry, so you silently press your face into the crook of her neck, her yellow coat crinkling.

No words fit. You sit in silence, clinging to each other, forgotten by everyone else. 


	9. School

Eventually, you pull away from Six, sniffling quietly. There’s probably plans to be discussed, things to decide, morals and self-hatred to work out. A lot to mull over, none that you actually want to. Honestly, you’re interested in sleeping, all the events of the day making you more exhausted than you’ve ever been before. 

Thankfully, Six seems to understand you aren’t up to anything difficult right now. Instead, what she does next is playful and entirely incongruous with the general atmosphere: she plucks the paper bag right off your head, and attempts to cram it on her own, over the raincoat. It doesn’t fit at all. You watch with bemusement as she circles blindly around the room, hands held in front of her, the eyeholes of the paper bag not even remotely matching up with her eyes. A short-lived smile flits at your lips. The humor may be ill-suited to the situation, but… it’s nice to know after everything, she’s really just a kid. 

Then your mind drifts to the shadows which had so keenly wrapped around her, and obeyed her faultlessly, and your smile fades. She’s… _mostly_ a kid. And a little bit something else. “Hey,” you interject croakily.

Six freezes in place like she can read the seriousness in your tone. All joviality gone, she pulls the bag off her head, and glances nervously at you.

There’s many questions. Many things to learn. Most things you're not sure you want to know though, and you've never been good at sorting thoughts into the right words anyway, so you instead stumblingly ask, “what are the shadows?”

Six’s eyes flick away uneasily. She doesn’t want to answer. 

“I’m just curious,” you clarify, and that’s probably true. Curiosity is safer to explore than any trickier moral quandaries which could arise from other questions.

She glances back thoughtfully. You don’t think many people have been welcoming about her eccentricities. Probably nobody has. While you had a good handful of friends at the school, and your mother, too, it doesn’t seem like Six has ever had anyone. Maybe it’s twisted to feel bad for her after everything, but you do. It’s not like she’s _evil._ Just different. And that’s not something she should be isolated for. 

Six comes to a decision. She cups her hands together, as if holding water. From her skin, tendrils of ever-shifting darkness bloom, something between smoke and shadows. The darkness assumes a familiar shape: a flickering, shadowed imitation of herself.

Your breath catches. It’s both fascinating and frightening. Her control over it is precise enough to even imitate life. 

A second shape materializes: a kneeling boy whose face is blurry but whose tiny figure is identifiable. It’s the same boy that was caged with Six earlier today. Once you observe that, you’re not so sure you want to watch anymore, but neither can you look away. 

Shadow Six descends upon him and you flinchingly witness as he gets killed for a second time. From his body more shadows are withdrawn, until he’s a shriveled motionless husk, and the darkness snared from him swirls around Shadow Six, claimed. Some of it absorbs into her; other parts distort themselves into new configurations, manifesting places, people, images. 

You squint, and lean in, trying to make some sense of it. The images flash so fast, and are all painted with nothing but darkness, so it’s challenging to make out anything. Then a few images stand out to you: the School, the library, the very bookcase under which is the crawlspace, and then the crawlspace itself. All of it from the point of view of someone very small.

The images keep flicking on, showing people you don’t know, and some that you do, like the Teacher.

“Memories,” you breathe, comprehending at last. 

That’s how Six knew to go to the crawlspace. That’s how she knew the way. She - she took that kid’s memories. 

Six tilts a shoulder and hums, as if saying, _sort of. _

The spectacle in her hands continues. All the darkness sucks into Shadow Six’s form, and then she walks in place without ever leaving Six’s palm, her shadow long and roiling and alive. Disturbed, your gaze follows it dancing over Six’s wrist and forearm, and it assumes new shapes, grows limbs and heads with hollow eyes and screaming mouths and - 

Your stomach flips. Children. Or the spirits that make them who they are. _Souls_. Your breath trembles. If… if your interpretation is right, the powers are fueled by souls. She’s not eating _only_ flesh when she consumes. The hairs on your arms raise. Part of you already regrets asking. Another part of you can’t resist continuing, voice hushed with dread, “what - what happens to them?” What you mean to say is, are they always with her? Do they ever move on? Do they ever know peace?

Six hesitates. Her eyes watch you warily. Shadow Six flickers like a television with bad reception.

“Please,” you add. She’s wary that it’ll be too much for you. Waiting for you to react badly. Maybe it already is too much. But you have to know. 

Six’s eyes descend to the Shadow Six in her palm. The long darkness, twisted into the shape of children, begins to melt, wane. It fades, eaten up, until there’s nothing left. Once it’s all gone, Shadow Six’s arms wrap around her stomach, and she hunches double. Even without any accompanying sounds, the gesture is instantly recognizable as hunger. 

The translation is simple: Six uses up a soul, then she gets hungry for another one. 

Your mouth is dry. So that’s the deal with her hunger. You don’t know what to say. 

Six closes her fists; the Shadow Six vanishes in her clenched fingers. 

“Why?” You finally utter. Why does a kid have to be leashed to a ravenous appetite like that? Why does a good person have to consume the flesh and souls of others? There’s no doubt in your mind that if she had a choice, she would choose not to. Which means she’s forced. Forced to do something so terrible.

Only after speaking do you realize that _why_ isn’t a very complete question, and she could have interpreted it many ways. However she took it, she responds by hugging herself, and shaking her head. Not something she wants to answer. That’s okay. She doesn’t have to share everything right away. You have a thousand questions, but it’s easy enough to bite down on them for now, leaving only a clumsy, “thank you. Um, for showing me.”

Her mouth is a tight line. Clearly, she’s not convinced it was a good idea. You’ll admit it freaked you out, but… you’re beginning to accept that’s kind of part of the package with Six. It’s a scary world to begin with. At least she’s trying to fix things. And doing better than _you_ were. (No, don’t linger on that.) 

Words have never been your strong suit, so instead, you grab her hand and squeeze and try to convey with your eyes that it’s _okay. _That you aren’t upset at her. The gesture earns you a tiny smile. It’s weird how such a little thing can make you feel warm, even given the circumstances. 

Decisively, Six pulls out of your grip, and cups her hands again. The shadows surge from her skin with much greater confidence now - a frightening confidence - and almost immediately create a miniature version of _you_ on her palms, like a little character in the televisions. Black heat-less fire flares all around, but the Shadow Mono ducks and dives and leaps fearlessly through the flames. There’s even a little cape draping from your shoulders - which you definitely _did not_ have on. The imagery’s pretty clear, whether you like it or not. 

“I messed up,” you argue, voice twisting, “I’m not a hero-“ Real life isn’t like that anyway, with heroes and villains and crap. 

She shrugs, and points at herself. _You saved me._

“But everyone else-“ 

She shakes her head hard and shushes you. Banishing the shadows, her palm thumps right over your heart (hard enough to be a bit painful, but you ignore that), and makes a gesture you can’t read. 

You don’t get it.

Again, palm to your heart. Her look is intense. When you still don’t understand, she repeats the gesture and then gives a sappy thumbs-up with a dopey smile.

“I… have a good heart?” You guess, a wry smile curling at your lips. 

She laughs, and nods. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you say fondly, but oddly enough, it does make you feel a bit better. 

Snorting, she ruffles your hair (which is whimsical and beyond bizarre), and springs away. She’s in a strangely playful mood, even despite all the serious conversation, and she throws a look back like she expects you to come chase her. 

Tag? At a time like this? Sometimes, she really does seem a lot younger than you. You’re weary to your bones, your feet ache something awful, and you’re emotionally drained. Somehow, despite having had an equally eventful day, she’s not tired at all. Unhelpfully, an inner voice chimes in, _you know why. She’s still full of energy from devouring that kid._ She’s practically shivering from it. 

You shake off the thought, not wanting to dwell on the idea. “Sleep first,” you decide firmly, then add, worriedly, “don’t leave?” 

She crosses her heart. 

Assured, you do your best to get comfortable with no pillow and no blanket, no proper bed except for the leathery cover of a book. Still poorly adjusted to being a runaway, and on the heels of such an awful day, you think it’ll take a long, long time to sleep. 

It doesn’t. Exhaustion swiftly overwhelms you.

* * *

In your dreams, flesh roasts and melts around metal bars like fat off a griddle. Shadows roar and twine with flame. All of it is after you but you can’t run fast enough, and on either side there’s cages upon cages upon cages. The countless children within scream desperately at you to save them, _save them, _but if you stop, it’ll get you, it’ll -

You jerk awake, panting. 

First thing you notice is a small blanket pulled up to your shoulders, one you don’t remember having when you fell asleep. That tiny detail helps soothe you from the nightmares, and you squeeze the soft fabric. Otherwise, the little room is dark, signaling that evening is already well on its way. It’s also quiet, except for the rub of crayon against paper. Six lays on her belly on the opposite side of the room as you, drawing. Distantly, somewhere out in the school, a clock ticks.

Slowly, you sit up, rubbing your skull. The memories from yesterday are still fresh, but you’re equally unwilling to stop and think about them, apart from a lingering coil of guilt in your stomach that doesn’t want to leave. Right now, you’d like to get food. The bit of stale roll you'd nibbled earlier in the day wasn’t quite filling enough. You slide off the books and land hard on the floor - and _immediately_ regret it. 

Seething through your teeth, you collapse against the books. Anything, anything to get your feet off the floor, because they’re painfully tender under the bandages. Six stands, alert; you wave off her concern. You just… won’t be able to walk for a bit… Jeez, it hurts so much worse. It’s unbelievable you actually managed to run around with your feet so cut up, without even noticing, nonetheless. Adrenaline and stress will do that, apparently. 

Worriedly, you cross one leg over the other, and prod at the bandages - it stings fiercely, and a few dots of red show through the bandage. You’re not sure if that’s because you just opened the wounds afresh by standing, or if they were bloodied at the time Six applied them. 

Either way, you’re definitely not going to be walking any time soon. 

While you troublingly ponder over how you’re supposed to get food, Six vehemently points with her crayon until you follow her line of sight. Sitting at the very edge of the book is a full glass of water, along with a plate of various fruits - a strawberry, a raspberry, a blueberry. Oh. You feel stupid. She got food _for_ you. Gratefully, you down the entire glass, and eat your way through a good half of each fruit. The rest you feel bad about leaving (it’s not like half eaten fruit stays good), but Six definitely isn’t interested in it, and you’re too full to have another bite. 

Nothing to do about that. Sitting on your butt, you scoot your way over to Six, doing your best to use your feet as little as possible. Peering over her shoulder, you see many drawings of the Signal Tower. Each viciously crossed out. 

Wow. That’s dedication. Clearing your throat, you spend a few moments working up the effort (funny how it was easy to talk earlier, and now you’re all tense about it again), then jokingly say, “y-you’re obsessed.”

She snorts and punches your arm. 

“And thanks for the food.”

She passes you a few crayons and paper. Drawing? It’s been a long, long time since you drew anything. Creativity isn’t encouraged at the School. Even when you hid out here with other kids as a student, you couldn't bring yourself to actually draw. Not that you didn’t miss it…

Six is already happily wasting paper after paper, not a single thought about what’s right or proper. If she can do that, you can too, dangit. 

You grit your teeth rebelliously, and put the crayon to paper. Refusing to think, you draw, and the figure that begins to emerge from your paper fills you with both dread and deep nostalgia, as well as a whole bundle of feelings you don’t want to begin to unpack because they hurt too much.

Once it’s done, Six glances at your picture, and hums inquiringly. 

“My mom,” you explain, setting aside the crayon. It’s an atrocious drawing of her. Scraggly thick lines, weird proportions. You’re embarrassed that this is Six’s first look at her. “She’s a lot prettier in person,” you add intently. 

Six smiles, and traces her fingers over your drawing, like she sees a picture that isn’t an eye-sore, like she has a glimpse of how lovely your mom is (was). 

“What about your mom?” you ask, half embarrassed, half flattered, altogether eager to change the subject. 

Six grabs a red crayon and violently fills an entire page with red. 

…Okay. Maybe it’s better not to probe further. 

At any rate, Six diverts her attention to drawing the Signal Tower again. She’s pretty fixated on that. Weirdly fixated. Maybe she’s just… really eager to save people. That’s something you can understand 

(another cold surge of guilt)

And it’s a respectable desire 

(something that’ll go better than _your_ mess)

So naturally she’s… probably wanting to get there in a hurry. 

With your feet in this condition, though, there’s no way you can make it to the Tower. Will Six move on without you? Try to tackle it herself? She’d probably just be just as efficient with or without you present. But… you want to go with her. (You don’t want to be alone). 

“Um,” you broach the subject haltingly, “I’m gonna be stuck here for a bit…” you wave at your bandaged feet. 

She nods disinterestedly, scribbling away. 

Um. Your fingers tangle with each other. “Will you…”

She understands the question before you ask it, and loosely sketches the two of you on top of her most recent Tower drawing. _You and I together._

“You’ll wait to go?” You double-check, just to be sure; she nods, and laughs at your nervousness, like she’s teasing you for ever believing she’d go on without you. 

You’d be self-conscious, except you’re too relieved.

She has a really nice laugh, too. It’s quieter than any you've ever heard, unobtrusive, so quiet one might just miss it. Reassured, you pick up a crayon and bow over another clean paper. There’s nothing else to do, so you may as well be rebellious to the system and draw some more. 

Just as you’re deciding what to draw, a flit of supernatural shadow enters the corner of your vision. You tense, alarmed, and the shadow darts in to swipe the crayon right from your hand (with a chill cold as death).

You blink in shock. Six, sitting a safe distance away, is grinning devilishly, the shadow behind her tauntingly dancing the crayon in the air. 

She’s - she’s playing. With her powers. It’s a game. You nearly laugh, torn between disbelief and uncertainty. Is it okay to be using that power for a game? That's kind of uncomfortable isn't it? Given where they came from and all...

Six’s face falls a bit, worry creasing her brow at your lack of response. 

Right - right. Just a game. Earlier, you complained Six was too serious, and now here you are, being a wet rag yourself. You shake off the doubt, and instead gasp, mock-offended, and jokingly cry, “hey! That was _my_ crayon!” Instantly, you begin snatching up all the crayons in your vicinity, hugging them to your chest. “If you want that one, then _these_ are mine!”

Six sticks out her tongue. Another furl of shadow lashes out and snares several crayons from your collection. Although you wildly bat at the intrusive shadow (sending one crayon launching across the room), it makes away with most of your crayons. 

“Not fair,” you whine, “I can’t even walk!” 

Mocking you, Six stands up and dances from foot to foot, thumbs on her cheeks and tongue stuck out. You laugh, then, because she just looks so silly.

“Rude. Very rude.” You pelt your remaining crayons one by one at Six, managing to strike her raincoat with the first one. All successive crayons are deflected by a wall of shadow as she crouches and throws her arms over her head. 

“Hah,” you brag, “I still got you with one! That means I win, because you're _cheating_.”

Squealing in offense, Six gathers all the crayons with her shadows into one big bundle, and it hovers over your head like a raincloud. 

“Nononono-“ they come pouring down, and you accept your crayon-y fate, collapsing dramatically and letting your tongue loll out, crayons littered all over your coat.

She laughs from across the room, and then you can’t help ruining your dead-ness by joining in, too. 

It’s strange, joking and playing around like yesterday didn’t happen. But it’s easy, too, like you’re friends that haven’t seen each other in years and yet nothing has really changed. To tell the truth, you like it. You’re not pretending all that bad stuff didn’t happen. You’re just… kind of accepting it. Your stomach twists again, proving your emotions aren’t exactly following your logic.

Six thinks you were being heroic, though. That’s the thought you try to hold on to, rather than your guilt. So you sit up, ready to wage another crayon war and not think a moment more on anything bad. 


	10. School

Somewhere near midnight, you fall asleep again (and again, Six doesn’t). Your dreams are tormented and restless, riddled with fire and blood. Come morning, the sound of the Teacher’s shrieking voice wrenches you violently from nightmares and into waking panic, convinced that she’s _right beside you_. 

Panting, heart racing, you frantically look around the room but - 

Of course, the Teacher would never fit in this tiny cubby. Next, you check for Six: she’s in the back corner, eyes equally wary. Good, she’s unharmed. A new school day has started, which means it’s not safe to leave the crawlspace. Although individual students, amongst the crowd, might occasionally slip in and out of here unnoticed, the Teacher is very familiar with every face her students have (and every variation of mask available), so she’d instantly recognize you as a runaway if you were seen. Six stands out even worse, with her bright yellow definitely-not-School-approved coat. The two of you will just have to stay bunked here.

Gradually, your muscles relax, and you maneuver out of your startled crouch (which is exceedingly painful for your feet). Even after knowing the threat is far, your bones are cold, and your throat remains closed right up. The Teacher’s voice brings back no fond memories. She is both sadistic and clever, and she takes especial delight in breaking kids. You never ran afoul of her worst moods, but some of your classmates did. How terrifying to conceive of falling to her wrath, now that you are a runaway. 

Eugh. The thought alone… You wrap your arms around your legs. Undoubtedly, she’d come up with something particularly awful. Sensing your distress (probably because you're telegraphing it clear as day), Six comes to sit next to you, and she leans against your side. The little warmth she provides is more comforting than you’re able to articulate, and you’re infinitely grateful that, even though you’re a runaway, you’re not alone.

For a while, you simply sit in silence, letting your mind drift to random thoughts, some pleasant, and some not. Then it drifts to something it sticks on, and not in a good way.

See, for as long as you've known Six (not very long, but certainly long enough to discern a pattern), she’s consistently needed to eat about once a day. Going by that rate, she’ll need to eat again by this afternoon, at which time School will still be in session. She’ll either have to sneak out, or… 

God, you really, really hope that no kid comes into the crawlspace. You want to ask Six if she’s hungry, but due to the Teacher’s voice, all your words (even the quietest of them all) have been sealed in your lungs. 

* * *

The day passes slowly, dully, and yet full of anxiety. Crammed into one small space, shied away from the Teacher, boiling in the buzzing heat, it’s a miserable time. Your feet throb painfully, and there’s little else to focus on unless you want to mentally broach the subject of the Market and all the dead people to yourself (which, amazingly, you don’t), or perhaps the potential for Six to get hungry (also a topic you'd like to avoid). Meanwhile, the remnants of the fruit from last night begin to rot, and their browning flesh perfuses the entire crawlspace with the strong reek of sickly sweet decay. You wish you had eaten them before, both to avoid the smell, and because there’s nothing else to eat now. Nothing to drink, either, one you and Six finish off the water she’d brought. 

It’s weird, being both anxious and bored simultaneously. The two almost feed into each other, creating a vicious cycle where your heart races as if you’ve been running for miles, and yet you’re doing absolutely nothing. It’s consuming. Horribly entrancing. 

Six tries to help by tugging you over to draw, which distracts you for a time. Unfortunately, you ultimately run out of paper to draw on (which you feel a little bad about, since the kids who brought the paper there in the first place probably brought it for themselves, not two runaways).

Six then puts on something like a puppet show, if all the puppets were made out of supernatural shadows. It’s a silent show with a simple plot about stolen cake, but the exaggerated expressions of the puppets delivers the humor well enough, even if you aren’t allowed to laugh. 

It strikes you that, while Six was previously scared to show off her power, now she uses it for every opportunity. Initially, you don’t understand why, and then it clicks - she feels safe enough to express it around you, and nobody’s ever accepted her like that, so now she’s using it a whole ton, delighted in the demonstration of something she liked to do but was presumably ostracized for. It’s both endearing and creepy, but you linger more on the former thing. You could do with some positive emotions for today. Better to believe some good can come out of the shadows, despite their grisly origin. 

Nonetheless, by midday, you’re thirsty and hungry and weary, with nothing to do, but School is still in session, the televisions humming in every room, and you’re too scared to leave the crawlspace. Six and you sit beside each other miserably, waiting for School to be over. Another kid coming into the hidden room and hanging out would have livened things up, but you’re glad that nobody does today, especially as afternoon presses in: any second you expect Six to get hungry, and you know that as soon as she gets hungry, it’s a ticking time bomb until she absolutely _needs_ to eat. It’s simply not safe for other kids to be around her when that happens (you ignore the inner voice that reminds you that you, too, are a kid, and contrary to the students outside, you’re stuck the entire day in the crawlspace _with_ her).

Whether you ignore that inner voice or not, it does certainly contribute to your apprehension. Periodically you check for any signs of hunger. Luckily, those things are pretty pronounced: it’s not something she can hide. Even more luckily - or inexplicably - she never shows any signs, even as the afternoon arrives, and then departs. If anything, she just gets confused when you keep glancing at her worriedly. 

You can’t explain why she isn’t hungry, but you’re definitely not going to complain. 

Finally, finally evening rolls in, and the noises of the School dwindle. The students leave - at least those permitted to - and then so too does the Teacher. Your feet ache something awful, but once the whole School evacuates, you can’t resist escaping the crawlspace you’d been cooped up in. A short journey to the kitchen and back should be manageable, anyway.

The School is composed of a handful of rooms. Two classrooms, the library (that houses only approved books), the cafeteria and kitchen, the dungeons (as they’re colloquially called, though they are still on the first floor, and consist of several very small rooms where disobedient kids are held overnight), and the workshop, where the eldest kids are sealed into their masks (you were a few months away from that fate). There’s a couple closets, too, mostly housing supplies and spare equipment. Every room has a television, so you locate the crumpled paper bag in the crawlspace and fix it on your head again before departing.

Together you and Six wander out, heads swerving left and right like you expect at any instant for some wicked monster to emerge from the woodwork. Something like that isn’t inconceivable. Although the Teacher doesn’t stay at the School overnight, Masked Students do, and they patrol the halls, sleepless and mindless. Even now, you can hear their hollow wooden feet pacing over the floor, some ways down the hall. 

You glance at Six, wondering if she is familiar with these students, now that she gained information from a child who was once a student here himself. Her gaze is intent and certain. She doesn’t seem surprised or confused by the striding of the Masked Student. So she knows, probably. Which makes sense. After all, she already fetched food and supplies for you.

In fact, she seems to know better than you, which creaking floorboards to avoid, which dark corners to duck into, which winding path most safely leads to the cafeteria. You might be a bit insulted (you liked being the guide), except for the fact it’s so well keeping the two of you alive (which matters a whole lot more than some hurt feelings). Clearly, the small boy had known the School’s machinations better than even you, and so now Six does, too. There are only a few close calls, where the puppet children are close enough that their shadows pass over you, and their joints creak. They make you shudder, bringing to mind vivid images of flesh and blood crammed into impersonal wood. Buried forever in a grave that moves on autopilot.

When you were younger, you used to wonder if, within those prisons of wood, there was anything left of the children they had once been. Your mother had always told you not to think about it, and so now, just like then, you try not to think about it. 

You’re grateful to reach the cafeteria safely, with its filthy tile floor, torn wallpaper, banged up chairs and tables. It’s both familiar and twisted up all at once. This place - all of the School, really - holds only bad memories for you. Warm memories, but also bad ones. It’s funny how those can be the same, because familiarity breeds fondness, even if you’re only familiar with bad things. As you pass under the light of a television, a troubled part of you wonders if it wouldn't be better to just turn yourself in after all. 

While you stew in consternation, Six’s shadows shed from her skin in plumes, reach high high high above her head, and snare the pantry door handle. Thankfully, that distracts you, because the shadows still put you a bit on edge. 

She tugs the door open. Rearing miles above your heads are endless shelves, stocked tightly with dried, wrapped, easy-to-serve food. Mostly all the same things. 

Six frowns. Yeah, it doesn’t make you too enthusiastic, either. But food is food, and sometimes you gotta make do. 

To your surprise, she doesn’t actually grab any of it. Instead, one thin shadow, stretching oh-so-high, nabs a key. A _key. _You never knew there was a key there. It’s a big bronze one, and it plops right into Six’s hands. Off she goes again, and you follow, bewildered, as she takes you to a back closet. This place was always off-limits to kids, only allowed to the chef. A turn in the lock, a click, and then you’re both in. 

You blink in shock. It’s a part of the School you've never actually seen. Here there are more shelves, only these aren’t loaded with pre-packaged bland boring food. Instead, they have a huge variety of spices, herbs, noodles, soups, chocolates, vegetables - it’s incredible. Even better, Six opens a fridge towards the back of the room, and within that is an array of fresh fruits, drinks, sauces, tin-foil wrapped leftovers, meats, and more. 

Six grins at your look of awe. Spreading her arms, she seems to say, _so, what do you want?_

A laugh bubbles up your throat without quite escaping (not safe), and lingers like a balloon in your chest. There’s so much here! This must be where Six found the fruits! And now - now you can choose whatever you want to eat. Such a choice is completely overwhelming with so many options. First things first: something to drink. You gesture to a weird fancy-looking bottle in the fridge. It’s all glass, and colored a bright cherry blue. The sinuous shape of it is eye-catching. You have no idea what it is, but it looks good. Six drags the bottle out with her shadows, and it clunks heavily to the floor. 

After you spend a while trying to wrestle off the cork cap, Six takes pity on you and pops it off for you with the shadows. Those things are _really _convenient. Some liquid chugs out onto the floor, smelling strong and foul, and your lips seal tightly together. _Alcohol. _You do know what this is after all. Something your mom never let you drink.Well, while you’re in the habit of breaking rules - 

Your knees and palms hit the floorboards and you stick out your tongue to catch some drops from the glass. A sharp burning sensation blooms at the tip of your tongue and roars all the way down your throat with your instinctive swallow - instantly, you whimper and leap up, waggling your hands in disgust. Why does _anyone_ drink this? Oh gross, you can’t get the flavor off your tongue - 

Six hurriedly finds a water bottle and nearly spills the whole thing in her haste to bring it to you. The shadows unscrew it and dump some into the cap, which is sloppily shoved into your hands. Instantly, you swallow it like a man dying of thirst (okay, maybe you’re not that desperate, but you are thirsty, and frantic to get the terrible taste off your tongue). 

The water, cool and fresh, quickly washes away the foul flavor (leaving only a horrible faint after-taste). You down the entire cap of water, and Six pours more - the entire second serving goes down your throat too, before you remember Six is probably thirsty too, and you hand the cap back for her.

Jeez, why would anybody have that? Why would they put it in such a nice looking bottle when it tastes so terrible? Wiping your tongue for good measure, you look around the room. Tasting the alcohol sorta warned you away from trying any food you haven’t had before. Even so, there’s a whole of buffet of stuff you do recognize. Once Six has her fill of water, you eagerly point at a broccoli head. Effortlessly she pulls it off the shelf with her powers. Those are _really_ handy for reaching stuff you wouldn’t otherwise be able to. The broccoli head plops right down beside you, but already you’re pointing at a carrot, and then a turnip and - and - and -

Soon enough, there’s a whole pile of foods around you, way more than you could ever eat, but you feel giddy by the excess and Six doesn’t seem to mind at all, taking delight in fetching you anything you point at (mostly you think she’s enjoying your acceptance of her uncanny powers). 

Spoiled and gleeful, you grab whatever’s closest (a carrot) and take a bite, savoring the sweet flavor and the crunchy solid snap. One by one you sample everything that Six brought down, until you’re full to bursting. It gives you a diabolical bit of satisfaction to look over the carnage, a pile of vegetables each with a few bites taken out of them. That’ll show the chef, for hoarding so much good food and feeding the kids crap. If you were in charge, you’d make sure _every_ kid got good food. A surfeit of food at every meal!

Six is grinning at you, which makes you think you have a pretty fanciful expression on your face. You grin back. Funny how you can eat better as a runaway than you ever could before.

Further out in the School, the Masked Student's feet continue to endlessly click on wood. Your own feet are hurting. It’s probably time to return to the crawlspace. Before you leave, you gesture the fridge. By now Six has closed the door, but you well remember all the meat stacked up in there. _Don’t you want some?_

Six shakes her head.

Weird. 

You gesture again, more insistently, and worry flashes over her eyes. Right. She’s probably remembering that you forced her to eat back at the Shop. Yeah, you’re not going to repeat that event, so you drop your hand and let the topic slide. Even so, it’s been over a day. Like, a day and a half. And she’s still not hungry. Isn’t that concerning? Or strange? She’s not behaving oddly or anything, so maybe it’s okay? 

Although now you don’t know how to predict when she will next be hungry… 

Maybe different foods are filling to varying amounts. That’d make sense, right? She prefers living flesh (souls). Maybe it’s the most sustaining or something… Euk. Whenever the reason, Six doesn’t seem concerned. (You’re concerned).

She guides you back to the crawlspace, the two of you bearing vegetables and a child-sized water bottle from the kid’s pantry. You would have liked to bring a slab of meat, too, just in case, but you have the foresight to realize how poorly that would go in the summer heat, crammed in a small crawlspace. Speaking of, Six next moves the rotten fruit from the room, depositing it in the trash, while you sit on the books and nurse your stinging feet. 

For many reasons, you’re impatient for them to heal. Hopefully in just another day or two, you'll be ready to get out of the School. They don’t have to be _completely_ healed. That would take forever, and although Six is being very patient for you, you're certain she’s antsy to get out and continue her mission. You don’t want to be responsible for delaying it any more than you already have. Not to mention you’re already sick and tired of being in the School. Already the idea of spending another day hiding in the crawlspace makes you feel nauseous and antsy. Only one small venture out couldn’t staunch your need to be up and moving, but with your feet in the condition they’re in, and the Masked Students wandering the halls, there’s not much you can do. Not even playing tag with Six within this confined space. 

Six seems restless, too. With any games involving walking or running out, you wave Six over and elect to play some hand-clapping games (or rather, hand-gently-touching games, because clapping is too loud). To your shock, Six doesn’t know any of the ones that you try to initiate, and it turns into a teaching session where you show her the rhythms and motions. Honestly, these games aren’t something you’ve played for years, and they’re definitely too childish for any situation except extreme boredom. Six seems to enjoy learning them, though, which makes you happier to have thought of the idea. 

Finally, with the crawlspace darkening until you can barely make out your own hands, you yawn wide, and this time, Six yawns, too - those things are always contagious.

As you settle into bed - or the book and blanket that have become your bed - Six peels off her raincoat and sneaks under the blanket, too. Huh. Maybe she’s finally sleeping! It’s about time: she’s been awake for… almost forty-eight hours now, and the first eighteen or so of those were full of adrenaline, running, fear. Even now, she just seems mildly sleepy at best. She must be made of batteries or something. If she had kept going like that you would’ve had to do something extreme. You snort at the mental image of thwacking her on the head just to give her a few winks of sleep. At least now you don’t have to go to those extremes!

A smile at your face, you curl up, and close your eyes. 


	11. School

You wake up crying. 

Whatever the nightmares were, you don’t remember them well. Just foggy images and emotions, like the boy’s blue eyes blazoning in terror, swamped with darkness. A cold pit in your stomach. The smell of flesh roasting - that you’ll never forget. And dozens of voices blending into one entity, begging, begging.

Grinding your teeth into your lip, you wipe away the tears. This has to stop. It’s not fair, and you’re tired of waking up this way. At the expense of sadness, anger rises hot in your chest. You shouldn't _have_ to feel guilty. You shouldn't _have_ to feel like this.

In the Market, you had only acted according to your best judgment, right? What _else_ were you supposed to do? You had no way of knowing the fire would burn so far. No other distraction to pull their attention away. And at the cage, you _never_ should have been expected to know how to pick a lock, nor could Six have done it instead, not in her condition. Maybe your choices weren’t perfect, but neither were the circumstances. 

Your resolve hardens with certainty. It isn’t your fault, nor hers. It’s the adults. The televisions. It’s the people putting you guys in these situations in the first place. 

At least you _tried _to do something good_. _

A dark thought snakes in, _frankly, without you and Six, that kid would have died anyway. All the kids would have._

That makes you shiver a little, and you shy away from it at first.Dark or not, though, it’s true, isn’t it?

So maybe it’s time you stop blaming yourself for who died, and start congratulating yourself for those that were saved.

_Not to mention,_ you think, _imagine what a difference we’ll make once we bring down the Signal Tower._

Holding on to that idea helps push down any lingering doubts that remained from your nightmares (you’re doing something good. Even Six said so). Maybe you will even be able to bring your mother back. 

With your tears dried, you roll over and face Six. The crawlspace is dim, so you can only barely make out her features, but she looks peaceful in sleep. Not _graceful_, you mentally add with amusement, because her cheek is squished against the book and her mouth is half open. But she’s peaceful. Relaxed in a way she almost never is awake. 

You suppose the same might be said for you, nowadays. Runaways don’t really catch a break. 

Your eyes slip closed. Maybe once the Tower is shut down. Maybe then.

* * *

When you next wake, you don’t remember any dreams. Light filters into the crawlspace. The new School day has begun, meaning you’re trapped in here again.

There’s nothing left to draw on but the walls (which you do), and very little to play. The day passes silently, idly, both you and Six bored into a stupor. Come afternoon, you start to throw uneasy glances at Six (she’s _really _not hungry yet?), and she sticks out her tongue playfully once she notices.

Well. You have _reason_ to be concerned, given that neither of you can leave the entire day. So there. You stick your tongue out. Nyah. 

Snorting, she pokes your tongue, and you make an offended noise, flailing your arms. She flails her arms, too, and it becomes a silly slappy battle, until - very much out of the blue - another student slides right under the bookcase and into the crawlspace. 

Abruptly, just like that, there’s a third kid in your midst, one slightly round with baby-ish cheeks. Six and you freeze, mid-slap battle, and stare, as if it’s inconceivable anyone else could possibly enter the crawlspace (which is dumb, of course, this is a known hang-out) but since nobody showed up yesterday, you mistakenly assumed nobody would today. Yet here someone is.

Six waves. 

The kid doesn’t wave back. In fact, he might be more startled and alarmed than you, and understanding is dawning in his eyes. He’s realizing that you and Six are not students. Not at all. You’re runaways. And students are supposed to turn in runaways.

Six’s hand drops, confused as to why he’s not responding. She might be immensely clever, and good at navigating danger, but she’s not as keen about reading expressions. You, however, you recognize what this means. 

Instantly, you’re set on high alert, tense as a board. “_Don’t!-_“ you whisper hoarsely.

The boy takes a step backwards. To the exit. His lips part like he’s going to yell.

“_No!”_ In any other circumstance, the speed and agility with which you leap off the books and across the cubby space would have left you proud. Your hand snatches his wrist and jerks him away from the exit, probably harsher than necessary, but after everything, you’re _not_ going to let some random kid turn you and Six in. Your other hand slaps down over his mouth and pins him against the wall.

The boy quavers, eyes round and wide, whimpers emerging from under your hand. 

Holy crap, you just attacked a kid. “Sorry, sorry,” you whisper frantically. “Um, it’s okay- it’s okay- shh-shh-“

It’s weird, because nobody’s ever been scared of you before, but in all fairness, you’re taller than he is, stronger, and well, runaways are demonized. Made out to be awful, bad kids. You’re probably not helping the impression. 

Wincing, you force a smile. “Look, um…” Words. Words. Words. “Mono,” you decide to introduce yourself. “I’m Mono.” You jerk your chin to the splotch of yellow approaching. “That’s Six. We just want a place to hide, okay? We’re not going to hurt you.” Yeah, that seemed like a good start. 

The boy’s eyes jerk between the two of you in rapid saccades. He tugs to get free, but you don’t let go. 

“I’ll let you go,” you add quickly, “just promise you won’t run or scream, okay?”

He nods rapidly. 

He could be lying. It’s not like you could pin him forever, though. Just to be sure, you check with Six, verifying she’s okay with the decision. She has an odd look on her face. Sort of cold, closed off. But she nods. 

Okay, here goes nothing. Holding your breath, you release the boy.

He inhales a great big gust of air, wrenches his mouth open, and is about to unleash the mother of all screams, when Six’s shadows whip around him and force his big mouth shut. They snare the length of his torso and his legs, too, sending him thumping to the ground.

“Geez,” you clutch your hair. What’s _wrong _with this kid? You were a goody-two shoes yourself, but you never ratted out runaways! Well, you never really saw many either, but still. What’s this kid’s problem? And also, yikes, you and Six have _both _attacked him now, and you don’t blame the kid for being freaked out and struggling, because the image of him trapped in the shadows’ clutches is enough to make you queasy. Quickly you shoot a look at Six to make doubly sure she’s not thinking anything bad.

She just shrugs nonchalantly, like _okay, what do we do with this guy now?_

Still not hungry. Confusing, but good. As to her question - frankly, you don’t have any idea. You kneel by his side, frowning. 

“Look,” you whisper, “don’t tell the Teacher, and we’ll never bother you again, all right? We’re just trying to hide out here until we can leave. Please don’t tell on us.”

His green eyes fix on you, trembling. He’s hyperventilating.

“Six, can you… let up a bit?”

The shadows loosen, not giving the boy his voice back, but at least giving him some wiggle room.

“I know everyone says runaways are bad,” you continue falteringly. “But we’re not. We’re really not. I used to go to this School, too. I was just like you.” Maybe a little less snitch-y, but given that you let so many atrocities happen without doing a single thing in the past, you can’t get too snobby about that. At any rate, the kid finally seems to be actually listening to you, rather than just struggling. 

You chew your lip, and sit back on your butt. Now you don’t know if you can trust to let him go. Sighing, you add, “also, if you try to scream or run, Six will just grab you again. Okay?”

The kid nods. That’s going to have to be enough. The shadows bleed slowly off him, as if afraid to let him go, and he sits up, coughing.

Take two on the introductions. “Mono, Six,” you say, gesturing at yourself then her. 

“Olly,” the boy croaks, once he recovers.

Great. A swell introduction. 

“Olly. Not going to rat us out?” You check. 

He shakes his head. Wonderful. You plop on your butt, grateful to take weight off your sore feet. Six remains standing, eyeing Olly distrustfully, and he’s looking pretty nervous around her, too. 

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “She’s not going to do anything.” 

Except maybe get hungry. Hrm. She’s all collected, though. At the first sign of any hunger, you’ll kick Olly out fast. She’s clearly fine now, apart from disliking Olly’s presence. You get the sense she’s only tolerating him because of you, which makes you better realize that before you, she’s not really had any help. Just always doing her own thing, never trusting anyone. That’s a really lonely sort of life. It makes you wonder why you’re so different (you don’t feel different or special). Why she wants to hang out with you. 

Shaking off the musings, you ask, “hiding from the Teacher?”

“Nhn. It’s just - Teacher’s mad. Someone raided the kitchens last night. I always get blamed…”

Oh. Crap. Maybe you should have thought of that more carefully last night, leaving the kitchen in disarray. It might inconvenience the chef and the Teacher, but it wouldn’t do anything good for the kids, either. 

“You thought if you turned us in, you’d get a pass?” You guess. 

He nods. “‘msorry.”

Pity overrides any other emotion. The Teacher was horrid even at the best of times. When she was angry, though? That got the bravest of kids scared. “Well, you can stay here as long as you want. We won’t bother you.”

“She won’t?” Olly murmurs lowly. 

Six wraps her arms around herself, wearing an expression both guarded and unhappy. There’s not a single bit of her power in sight anymore, and you can easily guess she didn’t intend on revealing it to anyone else. She’d just reacted to subdue him, much as you had before. 

“She’s just a runaway, too,” you answer hastily.

“What were the shadows?” His voice wavers. 

“It’s just something she can do,” you try, and Six shoots you a grateful look. 

“My brother broke a TV once,” Olly replies quietly. “The stuff that came out of it looked a lot like those shadows.”

What? You hazard a glance at Six, and she only shrugs. Maybe Olly’s just thinking about regular smoke. Breaking a TV would probably generate a fair amount of smoke. 

“Well, it’s nothing,” you dismiss.

“She isn’t from the School-“ Olly starts again, and that arrogant sort of attitude gets under your skin (because once you had it). 

“Drop it,” you snap. 

He does.

He also doesn’t stay long after that. On one hand, you’re glad, because he was making the whole atmosphere even more tense. On the other hand, letting him go leaves you nervy, because he really could easily tell the Teacher on you two. There’s nothing to help it, though. 

He apparently keeps his word, because the day continues trudging by without any other disturbances. 

Night falls, the students leave, and your stomach grumbles (Six, meanwhile, still seems perfectly happy, and your theory that souls are a lot more filling is beginning to sound pretty legitimate). Whether she needs food or not, you definitely do. The paper bag at this point is especially grimy and gross (and bears a lingering smell of smoke), but you shove it on your head. 

Again you sneak out, following the same path, and wind your way to the kitchens. This time, instead of Six opening the pantry door with her powers, she grabs a nearby stool like she’s planning on moving it. 

“What are you doing?!” You hiss, grabbing her sleeve. The masked students would be able to hear the drag of a stool over the hardwood, surely. Again, Six makes a move as if to snag the stool, and again, you grab her and arrest the movement. “Your powers,” you remind her at a tone just under a whisper. 

She shakes her head. 

Is this because of Olly? Because of his remarks to her? Frustration boils in your chest. He didn’t have a right to be so accusatory, when he didn’t know her. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I don’t mind.” Okay, you mind a little bit. Only because it is freaky where those powers come from. But still. They’re useful, and absolutely necessary right now. 

Six refuses.

“Please,” you murmur. 

Pulling away from you, she cups her hands. Faint wisps of black smoke lift from her palms. Unlike before, they are not powerful, opaque, or lighter than air. They don’t swirl and dance with vigor and energy. Now they’re heavy. Pale. They dance on her palms, like puppets tiredly dragged on strings, then collapse back into her skin, extinguished. 

The pieces connect. Her shadows are losing strength. Getting used up. Just like in the mirage she’d shown you yesterday. 

Sooner rather than later, she’ll get hungry again. 

“Okay,” you breathe quietly. “Let’s not use the stool, though.”

The two of you scour the kitchen for anything that could potentially get you up to the pantry handle _without_ making a bunch of racket. Along the way, Six finds a nice cleanly folded paper bag, and she shoves it in your arms - much to your confusion, until you realize she’s proposing better headwear for you. Some kitchen scissors cut out neater holes for eyes, and then you swap out the old crumpled grimy bag for a new clean one. 

As for the pantry door, a rope eventually does the trick, looped around the handle and yanked until the door clicks and swings open. 

In you stumble, and peer up at the vast wall with its countless shelves. Six had originally found the key at the very very top, and reached it with her abilities….

“Any chance you can find the energy for that?” You whisper jokingly. 

Six gives it a solid try, but the shadows refuse to extend more than a few inches away from her. So rope it is. 

Several tries ultimately get it to snag on a high shelf. By this time, midnight has surely ticked by, and it’s taking way way longer than it had previously, but what can you do? Your stomach aches hollowly, and both of you already ran out of your water stores. As for Six… well… that’s only a matter of time, you think.

Six automatically starts climbing up the rope, but you shoo her off and take her place. She did everything last time. Least you can do is help out this time. Up the rope you ascend, past shelf after shelf of bland foods, until you reach the shelf Six had snagged the key from. Much as you look, though, you don’t see the shiny bronze key anywhere. Frowning, you push some food items around - maybe it’s hidden in the shadows? Maybe they tucked it under something?

No luck. Not a single glimmer of its bronze surface. You peer over the edge of the shelf. _What now?_

Six taps her chin and looks around thoughtfully. 

Maybe they moved the key. Yet another reason you shouldn't have left the closet such a mess… If you'd tidied up after, there’s a chance the chef wouldn’t even know you’d been there, then you could come back without trouble. Too late for could-have-beens, though. 

The closet with all its goods is out. You’ll have to make do with this pantry and the pre-packaged crud. You’ve eaten worse, honestly. 

It’s when you’re rifling through the contents of a cardboard box that the Masked Students show up. 

You don’t know what tipped them off. How they caught wind of you. But something did. First, you hear their false wooden feet clattering over tile. Not just patrolling - _running_. Straight for the open pantry door. Instantly, you’re off the shelf and scrambling down the rope, while Six dives to the door and tries to shove it closed. She doesn’t make it before the Masked Students burst through the crack, and then she’s running except there’s no where to go. 

You’re three fourths of the way down the rope when they launch at Six: you stop thinking entirely. 

Your fingers swipe the nearest weapon (a ladle) and your body leaves the rope; you’re falling through air, and hit the ground hard enough to send reverberations violently through your knees. You don’t miss a single step diving after the Masked Student closest to Six, cranking your arm back - 

_THWACK_, terra-cotta shatters as the ladle connects with the kid’s mask. Whoever it was underneath the mask collapses, and you’re stumbling over his body to stand protectively in front of Six. There’s no time to think about what you just did. More are coming, their ugly expressionless faces void of any humanity they once had. 

You don’t think at all. Just act. 

The ladle cracks right between one’s eyes, then fluidly slices horizontal across another’s neck. In the fray, with clay pieces flying everywhere, your hand seeks Six’s. Her fingers twine with yours. Mutually, you agree. 

_Run._

More Students are filing in through the doorway, and you can’t fight them all. There’s only to run. The two of you duck and dodge between all the wooden masses, with their clacking teeth and emotionless painted eyes, their mechanical fingers reaching, reaching. 

One snags your coat, dragging you off-balance. Like a feral cat, Six leaps onto him and claws her fingers under his mask.

He struggles to dislodge her, and you swipe at his legs. There’s a definitive organic _crack, _not the splintering of wood but bone, and then the ladle has blood on it. Both Six and the Masked Student crash to the ground. 

You yell a “sorry!” At her but she’s already pouncing away, grasping your hand, and dragging you through the next gauntlet. Once you trip, and nearly drop the ladle, but you come up with a snarl and strike the nearest Masked Student that had descended like a bird of prey.

Soon enough, you stumble free of the majority of their swarm, and make a break for the exit. Their hollow feet tap over the floor in your wake, but not just two, dozens, dozens, like countless marbles rolling over an empty floor.  When you were younger, you used to wonder if there was anything left of the children they had once been. Whatever the answer is, you decide that it's not enough. They’ll kill without hesitation. Another skull explodes under the ladle.You leap over the fallen body; Six leaps with you. 

Together you burst from the School door and fly out into the night, like wild animals released from a cage. One small and yellow-coated. One taller, cloaked in brown, learning to be brave. Learning other things, too. 


	12. Mono's House

Concrete chews up your feet. Doesn’t matter now. Can’t matter. Away from the outskirts of the town you race, towards the Tower with its red light flashing indifferently through the fog in the sky. On either side of the street, looming steel buildings swallow up wooden homes and hovels. Into the heart of the city you plunge, where lights glare in every corner, and in every damp alley, a television stares. Wires snare like a labyrinthine spider’s web, under the ground, on it, and high above it. Clothes swing on lines like people deflated and hung out. 

This is your home. This is what you know, in all its awfulness, with the humming of the televisions buzzing in your ears. Six is running wildly towards the Tower, but she doesn’t know anything about the dangers that lay between her and it. You _do._ You’re going to have to make some decisions to ensure the two of you can survive the long trek there.

Tightening your grip on her hand, you pull into the lead. Yes. Left here. Right here. Another left. Dodge the fanged metal trap set out for runaways. Leap over twisted aluminum and trash.You jump into the gutters and drag Six after, splashing through knee-high sludge, because there are cameras mounted on the nearest building facade, and only the gutters dodge their sight. Out of the gutters, then, and shimmy with your backs to the grimy facade, since there are people - monsters - milling across the street, and you must stay as hidden as possible. 

Never once does Six protest your choice of direction, or your implicit instructions at every challenge. She simply accepts your lead. She’s done that before, once, in the forest. At the time, you'd felt a self-conscious sort of excitement that she trusted you so much. Now, she’s more familiar to you. You’re a bit different, too. So a similar surge of pride wells in your chest, but this time with triumphant confidence. You fought off Masked Students. You ran back into the Market and set it ablaze. (There’s a swiftly-drowned modicum of guilt about that). You rescued Six. 

You’re really in it together now, aren’t you? You can never go back to your old life. And Six came here for one purpose. Crawling in the shadows of impersonal buildings, you decide that you’ll help her fulfill that purpose. No matter what it takes. You’ll lead her right, safe as one can be, traversing the city as a runaway.

Maybe that’s redundant, because you’d already decided to help her - except before, you’d decided as a scared kid, fresh out of his house, unsure what other options possibly existed apart from death.

Now you’re deciding as… 

(an adult?)

Well, you don’t know what you are. 

But you’re deciding and it’s more final now. You’ll see her to the end of things, whatever that might be. 

Of course, there’s a couple stops you’ll have to make before reaching that mammoth of a Tower, which lies all the way across the city’s expanse. That’s not a trip to make in one night, especially not when you aren’t in the best of conditions at the moment. First, you'll need somewhere to rest, and to get food.  So in an hour or two, you turn east from the Tower, and Six follows faithfully. 

Soon after that, you reach the first of those destinations. You’re tired and your feet ache terribly. Important thing is you made it safely. Made it to a house crushed under pounds of steel and metal, one home that a factory crawled on top of. The most familiar home to you. Its yellow glinting windows glare warningly, but once they brought you comfort. Part of you still yearns for that comfort. 

Six squeezes your hand, and it gives you strength. 

“C’mon,” you whisper. “We’ll be safe here tonight.”

Through a cracked darkened window you enter, clambering up on debris and loose brick until you help each other through, and go sprawling to the floor (your ladle clunks to the hardwood a few feet away). 

“Hello?” Calls a voice from another room. 

“_Gogogo,_” you hiss, snagging your ladle quick and diving after Six under the dresser. You make it just in time before the lights flick on. 

“Hello?” She calls again. It twists in your stomach like barbed wire, and Six presses her hand to your mouth when you whimper. 

You can’t help it. Her voice is achingly familiar. The same voice that would give lullabies wings. The same voice that promised you, heavy with exhaustion, that she’d get you out some day. She’d get you out of this nightmare.

“Is some _child_ there….?” A dangerous edge. That. That is less familiar. That’s the thing possessing her. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

_You didn’t, mom. You didn’t get me out. You just became part of it. _

That’s a twisted, confused thought, muddled with despair, bitterness, and painful empathy. Who she was before would have never let this happen. 

_I miss you so much. _

Her feet appear by the dresser, and you and Six press tight together, terrified to even breathe. A heartbeat hesitation, then she moves on, roving the room like a robot. 

_I miss what you were. Maybe I can get you out, like you never could for me._

When nothing is found, your mom flicks the light off, and closes the door. You slump in relief. Six turns her gaze to you, and her eyes are knowing. She understands where she is, now. Understands it’s your home. 

“Attic,” you say tiredly. “It’ll be safer there.”

The two of you spill out from under the dresser. This room, like everything else here, is both familiar and horrible. There’s the grotesque yellow wallpaper that you always whined about. The nightstand with burn marks on it from late night reading. The picture frame, hung up on the wall, with its remaining glass all jagged from the time you yanked it down and shattered it. Back when you were upset at your dad for leaving. Your bed is rumpled, unmade. The few remaining toys you were allowed are shoved under the bed, exactly where you left them. In fact, everything is exactly as you left it. And everything, from the sheets to the floor, is coated in a thin, fine layer of dust. Evidently, your mother hasn’t been in here since you left, and that sits a little funny in your stomach. You can’t dwell on it.

So you hook the ladle into a loop in your pants and lead the way, winding up the dresser. Halfway up, a loud grumble nearly startles you off the entire thing, and you clutch the handles in terror until placing the sound.

You throw a look down. Six is squashed up against the dresser front, clinging with one hand while the other has seized her stomach.

Ah. Hungry. It’s weird how that’s almost relieving. At least it takes away the unpredictability.

“C’mon,” you whisper down. “I’ll get you something to eat. Just come up to the attic first.”

She returns a strained smile.

Once you reach the top of the dresser, you hurry to remove the vent (you have a little screwdriver up here for that purpose, because in the weeks prior to running away, you’d needed some kind of escape from the times your mother was especially bad). Six sits nearby, hunched up, expression hidden by her hood.

“I know we have meat,” you assure her, working out the third screw.

She doesn’t respond. Finally the vent is removed, and you both slither in, clamber up up up, and emerge into the attic. It’s musty-smelling up here, thick with the reek of oil from the factories. It’s quiet, though, and safe. You led Six over to one corner, where you have a blanket, and a little box for a furniture piece, on which sits some of your favorite books. There’s also a tiny candle, a few matches, some plastic from smuggled food, a few water bottles, and some clothes. 

“Stay here,” you instruct; Six nods weakly.

The ladle you leave with her, because it won’t do you any good even if you are caught.

Then you go back through your room and slip out in a crack in the door, sticking your head cautiously in the hallway. The house is dark. Cold, too, colder than you remember. At the very end of the hallway, the blue glow of the television gleams from the living room, and its garbled voices chant loudly. Hypnotic. So that’s where your mother is. If she’s anything like she was when you ran away, she’s not going to move much. It’s a safe shot to the kitchen.

_But maybe I could see my mom? If she recognized me, maybe she’d…_

No. Shaking off the thought, you dart into the hall. Six has to eat. No time for delay. The carpet muffles your steps (and thankfully soothes the ache in your feet) as you trot to the kitchen and onto tile.

Here, you freeze, heart in your throat, because the kitchen, of all the places you've seen so far, is the least recognizable. The most used perhaps, least ignored. There’s a thick buzzing of flies, loud enough to burrow into your brain. Grimy dishes are stacked high in the sink, overflowing with rotten food and filth. Trash bags are littered against the far wall, bloated and in one case, a bit wet. Meanwhile, the table is so crowded with take-out and dishes that there isn’t room for anything else. There’s a lot of bugs. 

The smell alone gags you, and you bury your nose in your sleeve. Why is it so bad in here? You knew your mom was struggling to keep on top of things for a while before you ran away. She wouldn’t clean much. You usually had to remind her to do stuff, with increasing frequency as time went on. Had to help her out, even when you _could_ get her motivated. Not that you minded, you really didn’t, especially because it got harder and harder to get her up so it was a small victory - a small pleasure - just to stand next to her and do something simple like fold the laundry, or wash the dishes, because at least it meant she was up and you were with her. You kept thinking, maybe if you helped out enough, maybe if you kept encouraging her, she’d some day return to the way she was before. Only things never got better.

Soon enough, you'd be grabbing her hand, and pleading with her to please, please stop watching the television and she’d smile docilely and ask why wouldn’t you join her? It’s a good show, why wouldn’t you join her? And sometimes it’d be impossible to get her to her feet. Often she forgot to feed herself. Forgot to feed you.

Together, you kept it mostly together, until you didn’t, and that’s around the time you ran away. Now this has happened. It all fell apart.

If you had stayed, if you had kept trying, helped her out, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you should go talk to her right now, give her the little nudges that she needs…. You might have done just that, too, if you didn’t vividly recall the worst of nights for her.

However much it hurts to acknowledge, she needs a lot more than you to recover.

You came down to get food for Six. So get food for Six. That’s something you _can_ do.

The fridge still has the bit of fabric wound around its handle, dangling within your reach, so you grab it and pull. The smell hits you like a physical wave. The fridge is crammed full. Tupperwares with black food and white mold. Spilled drinks. Uncovered plates with rotting misshapen flesh. Crumpled tin foil and lumps of curdled liquid.

You bend double and gag. Is there anything, _anything_ edible in here?

You don’t want to touch anything. Maybe…. Maybe the freezer will have better luck. You climb onto the counter and push open the freezer before crawling in yourself.

Here, there’s packaged vegetables, and a few frozen slabs of meat. It’ll have to do. You grab a child-sized bag of peas, and the smallest chunk of unidentified meat you can find. It doesn’t take a stretch of imagination to guess where the meat comes from. Not something you'd ever eat. But Six should like it.

Hopping out of the freezer with your loot, you glance back worriedly. You don’t have the reach to close the freezer, meaning it’s going to have to stay open, spoiling any food within. That might be the only food your mom has left. It’s not difficult to go to the store (you used to go together all the time) but that means tearing herself away from the television long enough to go and you’re beginning to think that’s a feat she’s not capable of lately.

You whisper an apology your mom will never hear, swear to come back to help, and then you’re off, darting across the kitchen, through the hall, through your room, and back up into the attic.

By the time you arrive, Six is visibly in agony, her knuckles white and clenched in her coat, her breath hissing through her clenched teeth. This hunger thing gets bad, fast.

“I got food,” you whisper, hovering a safe distance away. You like to believe that Six cares enough about you not to eat you, but you’re also aware that her appetite is not selective, and her control over it diminishes the longer she’s hungry. Reaffirming that belief, the look she sends you is a dangerous one.

Better to be safe than sorry. You toss the food at her and it plops only a few inches away. She doesn’t hesitate to pounce on it.

The wet chewing sounds make you shudder, and you find new gratitude for your caution about approaching. Apart from the whole soul-eating thing, which is an added layer of unsettling, she’s freakishly good at ripping meat apart with her teeth.

She devours every last bite, but this time, her shadows don’t return. Neither is she imbued with the same energy as she was the last time she ate. After eating, she simply rises, wipes her lips, and that’s all. The basest need was met.

So any old meat can satisfy the craving, but it doesn’t really hit the spot, and it doesn’t sustain her the way… well, the way a living soul would.

It’s exceedingly strange to be _disappointed. _You brought her the food, and… well, you sort of wanted her to be more than pleased with it. You even miss her energy (and the shadows, if you were to be fully honest -anyway, they would have been useful). Obviously, the alternative to feeding her dead meat is unacceptable, not something you'd ever consider. In fact, your whole train of thought is weird. She’s not hungry anymore, that’s the point, right? You shake off the musings, and open your own bag of peas, only to find they’re so freeze dried that they’re all stuck to each other in a ball.

Sighing, you set to work breaking up the icy pea mass. It’ll have to do.


	13. Mono's House

Sated and safely curled under a threadbare blanket, Six conks right out (apparently the whole staying-awake-for-three-days-straight thing was a feat only possible when she ate - well, y’know). For you, sleep doesn’t come so easy. Not when you keep lingering on the open freezer door, and the blue glow of the television. Not when you think about your mother, rotting on the couch, smiling placidly as her life wastes away. She could starve herself to death and never realize it.

_Sleep_, you urge yourself. There’s nothing you can do. You know that. So sleep. Please. Think of nothing. Count sheep. Do something but don’t think about her. 

Except she’s your mother. 

You love her. You can’t not, no matter how bad she gets. Even if you can’t fix her (and you know you can’t), would it really be so bad, just to see her? At the very least, maybe you can tell her about the freezer door being open, before everything in there spoils. 

_No, sleep._

Instead, you throw off your half of the blanket. You’re not going to get any rest without first seeing how your mom is doing. One glance at Six shows she’s still deep asleep.

“I’ll be right back,” you whisper anyway. The ladle you leave beside her, but the paper bag you tug over your head. Just in case. Then you creep back down to the first floor, peering around your old room door. The lights are still out; shadows long and twisted. In the room down the hall, the television casts its hypnotic phosphorescence, while the people on the screen babble nonsensically. There’s no noises from your mother, but you have no doubt of her presence. Both dread and hope rise at the prospect of seeing her again: hope that there’s still part of her left to see; dread that you won’t like what you find.

Swallowing hard, you inch down the hall. Like being submerged into the deepest ocean, the TV glow swallows you up. Welcomes you in. Maybe it’s your imagination, but the closer you get to the living room, the warmer you feel. The chatter emitting from the television doesn’t have to make sense, not necessarily. It just has to exist, a white noise, drowning out the reality of anything else. How reassuring it is, to walk towards it. To let it embrace you. 

_Stop. _Your hand slips under the paper bag, and touches over your closed eyes. Refocus. You’re here for your mom. Not the TV. 

After recovering, you sneak around the corner into the living room bathed with dim artificial luminescence. You duck beside the crooked base of an old broken lamp. There are shapes outlined in this room, made eerie and surreal in half-light. The coffee table is over-stacked with trash to the point of spilling its contents onto the floor. A handful of glass bottles glitter. Bookcases are sharp angles in the deepest shadows, while pewter statues and other decorative items form absurd artful contours. There’s the couch, too, lumpy and huge, swathed with piles of blankets. You squint, and eventually, like a nightmare bleeding into reality, a human shape materializes out in the darkness. Your mother. It’s like she’s become part of the furniture. Only her ashen face sticks out from the blanket that drapes her thin frame. Her hair is long and unkempt. Her cheeks are hollower than you remember, nearly skeletal. The thing that disturbs you the most, though, is her eyes. They’re empty. Glazed. And that smile on her face. It’s a quiet smile, so small it might escape notice, but it’s chilling. She’s a fossil. Frozen, so thoroughly lifeless that for a moment, you’re scared you’re looking at a corpse. Only the barest movements under the blanket signal breathing. All the bottles around her are empty, all the food decaying.

Something in you curls up like a beaten dog. She’s worse than you remember. Much worse. Your palm presses to your mouth as you hold back a sob. 

She can’t last like this. What if she doesn’t make it? What if you bring down the Signal Tower, and then when you return, she - she’s - 

You can’t fathom the idea. An old instinct rises: to rush out, take her hand, smile as big and hard as you can because maybe if you’re happy, you can spread it to her, and with that, maybe you can tug her up, make her look _alive_ again. Thankfully, reason overrides the desire before you can act on it. You haven’t forgotten what her voice sounded like before, all jagged and wrong. She’s not herself. It won’t be like it used to be. You can’t just pull her up and help her. Neither, however, can you sit around and do nothing.

While your mind struggles to conjure solutions to problems that you can’t fix, you’re unconsciously backing away. You don’t even notice, until your heel strikes the base of the lamp. It rattles, because years ago it was broken and now only pieces of metal hold it together. There’s no mistaking the noise; it’s loud enough for her ears to catch.

Instantly, you freeze, petrified. 

From across the room, her milky eyes snap from the screen. She sees you. 

Your breath catches in your throat. For several staccato heartbeats, nothing happens. You don’t know what she sees in you, but you - you desperately search for a single scrap of the person you knew before. 

There’s nothing. No recognition. Only blankness. Those eyes are almost inanimate, constructed of glass or marble but nothing organic. Then, creaking like a wooden doll, she tilts forward at the waist. Her arms unfurl from under the blanket. Her skeletal fingers, ending in splintered overly-long nails, slide over a steak knife on the coffee table. Like she’s just spotted vermin and is about to kill it. As casual as someone swatting a spider. Your heart hammers. Maybe with the paper bag on, she can’t recognize you. That - that makes sense, right? That has to be it. You fumble to raise the bag, just enough that she can glimpse your face. “Mom?” You whisper, hopeful. 

The knife slides off the table with an unnerving _shink._

“_M-mom_?”

She snaps to her feet like a puppet jerked on strings. The blanket falls.

“It’s Mono,” you can barely utter. “D-don’t you remember me?”

The knife blade glitters supernaturally in the glow of the television. 

“You’re a _runaway_,” she finally says, like it’s a filthy word, and her voice is raspy with disuse.

“I-I’m your son,” you murmur, half-pleading. “I’m sorry for running away. Mom, please, I just-“

“I don’t remember having a son.”

O-oh. Words form at your lips and fail. The way she said it made it clear she was being honest. Simple and honest. So there it is. In the open. She doesn’t remember you.

There’s no comfort or safety here. Not that you ever expected to find those things. Hurt curls up in your chest, tight and small. Just say what you came to say and leave. “The freezer door-“ you begin hollowly. 

Thing is though, vermin is vermin. And she doesn't want it around.

The knife rears above her head, and she lunges. Only at the last second do you instinctively dive away because you never imagined she’d - that she -

You thud to the floor and look back to see the knife blade imbedded inches into the hardwood. Oh god. She didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. She was going to kill you. Your own mother was going to kill you. She would have met her mark, too, if you hadn’t jumped out of the way. 

The knife is wrenched out, and then it’s sailing through the air again. Your legs pinwheel, your hands claw at the carpet, and you’re stupidly sprawling away when the blade slams down centimeters from flesh. There’s not time for a single breath before she’s swiping again, steel whistling through the air, loud in your ears. Helplessly you fumble across the carpet, skin leaping in terror, until you’re scrambling under the coffee table. 

On the television, voices laugh. Your breath is loud in your ears. You scoot to the middle of the coffee table, furthest from all edges. Can she reach you here? Probably. But you hope not.

Turns out that she doesn’t try. Instead she sighs, gentle and soft in a way she was once, “Mono?”

Your heart skips. 

“Mono, mijo. My son.” 

No. No no-no-no

Whatever _thing _is in her, it’s playing with you. This was a mistake. This was such a horrible mistake. She’s much, much too far gone. Eyes wet, you yank the paper bag down over your head again. The TV laughs louder.

“Mijo, por favor, won’t you come out?” 

Groaning, your fingers slip under the bag and dig into your ears. You don’t want to hear it. You don’t want to hear that monster speaking with her voice. It continues its pleading, but every word you drown out with the screaming in your own head. You won’t hear it. You won’t fall victim to it. 

The sweetness turns sour. From lulling to snarling. Her fingers clench on one edge of the table, and then your heart drops into your stomach when she violently upturns the entire thing. Food containers, a few books, bottles, silverware and rotten food, all of it goes tumbling to the carpet.

“Mom, please!” You cry over your shoulder as you scrabble away. Where can you even go? She’s between you and the exit.

_Thud,_ the knife bites into the carpet and you leap away, yelping.

“You were so close to getting your mask,” she speaks with poison. “Why couldn't you have been a good son, Mono? Why couldn't you have gotten your mask, like all the other good kids?”

“I-I tried to be good-“ you squeak, skittering away from another flash of steel - this time, not quite fast enough. Your sleeve tears, and blood wells. No time to focus on it. You strike the far wall, and fling your gaze around wildly. Maybe if you circled around, ran behind the couch, then back in the hall - yes, it’s your only chance. 

You spring towards the couch, and your legs churn like they never have before.

You almost make it. 

Almost. But not quite.

Bony fingers encircle your body, and then the floor drops away from your kicking feet.

“Mom, please, _please, no_-“ your little fists pummel her hand futilely. She raises you high high up, until your eyes are level. 

“Runaways are worth nothing,” she says, calmly, sweetly, like she’s your real mother, and it hurts, it _hurts_ that for a second, you believe she is. Maybe you’re having trouble telling the difference. Maybe it's been too long since she was really your mother, and not Something Else.

“Let me go,” you plea helplessly. 

Her fingers clench around you, constricting every breath, squeezing your ribs untilyou’re certain they’re going to be crushed into your organs. Not once does her gaze falter. Not once do you see an ounce of regret in her eyes. The monster in her is prepared to murder her son, and there’s not enough left of her to even _try_ to stop it. Spots flare in your vision. Your insides hurt; struggling isn’t doing anything; you can’t get free. Words are strangled before they can emerge, as is your breath, and your brain blazes with the realization that _you’re not getting out of this. _You’re going to die. There’s no describing the sheer blinding terror. You lose control of your own actions, kicking wildly, thrashing, near to tears. 

You’re so caught up in it that you almost - _almost_ \- don’t register the booming shatter of glass. Then the voices on the television are silenced. No more humming. No more blue glow. It’s dark now. Dark as pitch. You freeze.

Someone… something… shattered the television screen. You can’t see anything anymore. Nothing except these streams of black, darker than the room, moving and flowing on invisible currents. All concentrating down to the floor. It’s reminiscent of Six’s shadows, but that makes no sense to you. 

“Who’s there?” Your mom growls. If there was any hope that destroying the TV would bring her back, you can soundly call that hope destroyed. The disease is much too sinister and virulent. It has got its hooks far too deep into her.

Your mom turns in place, trying to follow the intermittent noise of pattering feet.

An unknown object falls and thuds; your mom spins around again.

Silence. Listening. Waiting. Seconds tick by. 

Dread pulses through your veins. You don’t like this. You don’t like this dark, and quiet, and waiting, when nobody here is safe. Not you, not Six, and maybe not your mother, either. 

“Six?” you whisper faintly. There are things you want to say but you don’t know how. Or what’s best. If Six doesn’t do anything, you’ll probably not make it out of this alive. If she does… Your gut twists weirdly. Maybe it’s the sight of the shadows that has you especially on edge. You’re not even sure if that’s what you were seeing or not, but if you were…

“Six, she’s still my mom,” you call out, nervously. 

Her fingers tighten threateningly around you. “_Shut_ -“ She never finishes that command. It twists into a screech so sharp and piercing that it makes your own skin jump. There’s no time to react before her fingers release you, and then you’re plunging down down down and strike the ground hard enough that your ears ring. 

Ow. _Ow_. Six. Your mom. You have to - have to - There’s crashing. Shrieking. A heavy thud. The noises your mom is making, they’re like cries of prey, and it sends your heart leaping straight into your throat. 

You lift your spinning head, but can see nothing, nothing at all.

The lighter. The _lighter_ -

Trembling fingers fumble to pull it from your pocket. Twice you nearly drop it, the horrible cacophony invading your skull, but at last your numb fingers flick the spark wheel. Once, twice - c’mon, c’mon, c’mon - four times - 

It catches. Light flares. In sinister hues, it illuminates an image you wish you could forget. Your mother, prone on the floor, no longer looking tall and monstrous but instead frail and skeletal, held down with shadows that you don't understand how Six has. Six herself is a tiny slash of yellow, bent over her neck. Eating.

You’re screaming before you know it, and racing closer against any rational thought. “Stop! Six, stop stop stop! SIX!” 

You don’t think she’s going to listen. You don’t think she _can_, not once she starts eating, because you've seen how she gets; you know it isn’t a want or a desire but a _need. _Everything in you screams that you are too late. That’s what makes it so incredible to you when, with monumental effort, Six dislodges her teeth and pulls away, blood dripping from her mouth. You don’t like the look in her eyes. They’re half-lidded, hazy. Hungry. But she did it. She stopped.

As for your mom… it’s both a relief and a terror when she moans, then begins to rise, fingers creeping to the fallen knife. She’s not dead, thank god she’s not dead, but she’s going to kill you both if you hang around.

Grabbing Six’s wrist harder than is strictly necessary, the two of you are off. Snapping the lighter shut, you whip around the corner, and bolt back towards your room. You could climb up the dresser, and vanish back into the attic, but there’s no way you'd make it all the way up before she’d get you. 

That leaves the window, which is still cracked open.

You beeline straight for it, leap for the toy chest nearby, and scramble your way up. Only in the window sill do you realize Six hasn’t followed. She’s hunched up, shuddering. The bedroom door slams open. Your mom is on the way. Without looking up, you jump back down to the toy chest, “Six!”

She looks up with eyes desperate and tortured. 

“C’mon!” You grab the scruff of her coat and haul her up, while she kicks her feet and does her best to claw on top of the chest. Together you clamber into the sill, just as your mom’s shadow falls over you.

In the nick of time, you drop over the edge and then you’re scaling down the wall, missing many handholds, dropping faster than you've ever done this descent. You land hard enough for your knees to quake, and beside you, Six groans, her own legs giving out as she hugs her midsection. 

“_C’mon_-“

For a step you half-drag her, until she manages to get her legs underneath her again. 

Back into the streets. Back on damp concrete. Into the long, long night. 

It doesn’t seem like your mom is pursuing, so you run only a few blocks before you just can’t keep yourself going anymore. You don’t want to move any more, and not even fear can overrule your exhaustion.

Tucked against a cold impersonal building, you sink down to your knees, pull off your paper bag, and bury your face in your hands. Your breath is shaky, but no tears come, like you’ve shed all you could and there’s nothing left.

Okay. Okay okay okay 

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

Calm down. 

You’re exhausted. Ready to drop and think of nothing. Definitely don’t want to think about what just happened. About how you didn’t witness a single speck of who your mom once was. How she was going to kill you without hesitation. How Six was going to kill her. None of that. None of that. You shouldn't have gone to see her. It’s that simple. Now just move on. 

Move on. 

The back of your head thumps against the wall (ow), while your hands cover your mouth and you breathe through your nose. 

Things will be different after the Signal Tower. Things will be better. (You can’t know that).

Things will be better. Maybe. 

Maybe not. 

Slowly, you drop your hands, and eyes still closed, whisper, “how much was left? Of - of her soul?” Is that something Six would know? Could she see if any was taken, sucked away, corrupted? Because you know Six didn’t eat much of it, if any. Didn't have the time to. You’re just afraid there wasn’t anything to begin with. That there is no saving your mom anymore.

All you hear in response is ragged panting. _Really_ ragged panting.

That doesn’t sound good.

Your eyes snap open.

Six is hunched in a ball. You can’t see her face under the hood, but her arms are clutched tight to her stomach.

Right. You stand sharply, tense. Admittedly, you don’t totally understand. Six already ate tonight. Why’s she hungry already? She attacked your mom presumably just to save you, rather than for a meal. So she wasn’t hungry until _after_ starting to eat. That’s different than last time, when you tried to feed her, and she just threw up. Maybe it has to do with the type of food, much as it turns your stomach to imagine. She never liked dead meat much. Maybe it’s different, when it’s live. God, it’s really twisted to be thinking this. Really twisted, what she has to deal with. Not for the first time, you’re furious at whatever entity cursed her with this. You're furious at the forces that have consumed your mom. Maybe really you’re just furious at the whole world for being the way it is. 

Nonetheless, here you are. And Six isn’t handling being interrupted mid-meal so well. 

“Six,” you snag her attention. She meets your gaze haggardly, like she’s trying very hard to keep it together and failing. Buried under the hunger, there’s a plea for help. If you can’t help anyone else, you can at least help her.

“I’ll get you something. Stay here."

A faint nod. 

That’s all the confirmation you need. Frankly, it’s a welcome distraction from processing everything. The hardest thing is going to be _finding_ food. You’re too far from any store. You could sneak into someone else’s home, but sneaking into yours didn’t work that great and you don’t know anybody else’s so well. There’s the garbage, obviously, but that’s gr-

Wait. There’s _rats_ in the garbage. You used to have to kick them away when you went to throw out the trash every week, there was tons of them. They were nothing more than an annoyance before, but Six does better with live rather than dead meat, right? Feeding her a rat might be a bit uncouth, but honestly, it’s not like she’s picky_._ A rat has gotta be better than garbage anyway.

Decision made, you run to the nearest dump, where trash is piled in massive heaps behind some fast food places. Sure enough, the whole place is crawling with the critters. You've never been here at night, and can’t say you enjoy the experience, not with their beady eyes glittering in the dark, their paws scuttling over the heaps, their teeth munching on anything they can get.

Yuck. Okay. You just have to get one back to Six somehow. That’s another hard part. For a while, you weigh the merits of knocking one out, but the odds of you actually managing to do that with some random trash is ridiculous. Their tails are long, slithering, slipping in and out of the piles. They’re not even remotely bothered by you. Maybe if you grabbed one of their tails…. No, bad idea. Their teeth are long, and could easily chew you instead. Far too long, you hesitate by the trash piles, stuck and getting increasingly frustrated because you know Six is waiting for you, her condition only deteriorating. Inspiration finally hits when you glimpse some old thin wire peeking out from the trash. After digging it out (a messy business you hope to never repeat), you construct a simple slipknot and place the loop where the most rats seem to convene. After that, you tie the other end down. Just in case your presence makes them nervous, you tread further away from the garbage and wait. 

It’s not long before a curious rat nuzzles its nose through the loop. Sniffing, whiskers glinting in the moonlight, it nudges more of its head through, until the loop is snug just behind its ears. This is the point where the rat gets alarmed, maybe freaked out by the wire being too small to actually walk through, and it jerks away in the way animals do, wishing for nothing but escape. As soon as it jerks, the loop tightens. The situation only compounds, where the rat panics, the loop continues to constrict around the rat’s neck, and soon enough, it’s flailing and squealing and writhing wildly. By now, all the other rats have scattered, leaving their buddy to his fate.

Your hands tuck close to your chest as you take a step away. That’s - that’s not easy to watch. Not at all. 

You'll get Six. Yeah. You turn to do just that, only to find Six is already approaching. She came looking. Couldn't wait anymore. And maybe she already waited too long. Her eyes are starving, and fixed upon you in a way that you don’t like at all. 

You trip over yourself to back away. “I - I got a rat-“ you wave half-heartedly at the squirming animal, which you’re now having trouble feeling too bad for because the alternative to it getting eaten is you. 

When Six doesn’t redirect her attention, it seems a little more nudging in the right direction is necessary. So you scramble up the trash pile, skirting around the dying rat, and then position yourself so the rat is between you and Six. 

It’s like some dumb playground game, you standing on top of the trash heap like you’re going to declare yourself king of the mountain, and Six at the bottom, staring up at you with hollow hunger. 

“_Rat_?” You indicate, waving.

Her eyes lower to watch the pathetic creature. While you hate to see its squirming, and to hear its pitiful squeals (which are dwindling and dwindling as it loses breath and the will to live), Six seems to have the opposite reaction. It incites her. Excites her. Up the trash heap she comes, stumbling but determined. Right before the feast, her mouth opens, drooling saliva in a feral display that has you backing up further. 

The poor rat by this point is laying on its side, already huffing its final rapid breaths. Six’s fingers clench in its fur eagerly. Her eyes glitter, as her teeth puncture into the wet meat, and blood flows down. There’s no denying the ecstatic look in her face. The rat finds the energy to let loose a few high-pitched sounds, and you tear your gaze away, trying to force bile down.

It can’t be over fast enough. The noises are becoming familiar to you, and that freaks you out. But it still turns your stomach and makes you wish viciously that Six didn’t have this issue. 

Finally, Six pulls away. You dare to glance back. Over the rat’s mutilated and chewed-up abdomen, Six’s expression is satisfied. Tired, but satiated. Still without the shadows, still without the accompanying energy. So live is better than dead, but not the same as eating a person. It’s the best you can provide, though. 

“Feel better?” You ask tiredly. 

She licks blood from her fingers, and nods. You wish, too, that she wouldn't find such relish in eating.

Sighing, you rub your temple, and slowly descend down the trash heap. 

What an eventful night. What an understatement. There’s too much that happened, too much to unpack. For now, you’re just done.

“Let’s go to bed,” you say, like you have beds, or any place to stay. Like any of this is normal.

She nods. 

Wedged between two storefronts is where you curl up. Maybe you’re getting used to the runaway thing after all, or maybe you’re just too tired, but you fall right to sleep. 


	14. Alley

“Was there anything left?” You ask softly. 

You and Six are crammed between two store fronts, tucked behind piles of bricks and stone. The rising sun is burning away any lingering mist, though it’s still damp, and doesn’t smell any too good. Even so, neither of you are eager to get moving yet. And you want an answer. 

Six tucks her chin down, lips pursed. 

“Of her soul,” you clarify, even though Six knows exactly what you’re asking. “Six, please. Was there any of her left?”

Because you don’t think there was. You have a theory that’s why Six got so hungry. Promised a soul and denied it, even before you stepped in and stopped her. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I have to know.”

She sighs deeply, deep enough to raise and lower her shoulders. _Fine. _Meeting your gaze solemnly, she shakes her head. There’s the answer, conveyed without words: _No_. Simple as that.

The knowledge passes through you like a shockwave, and then, weirdly, is replaced by numbness. Your back presses against the side of the building. Your head falls to your knees. It’s confirmed, then. The suspicion (the fear) you held all along. There was nothing of your mother to save. Mostly, you just feel empty. Sad, yeah, only in a distant way. Otherwise, empty. Part of you sort of knew.

Quietly, Six scoots closer, and rests her head on your shoulder. 

Some people would leap right into comforting you. Hug you maybe, or pat your back and say pretty words that don’t make any difference at all. It’s extraordinarily relieving to you that Six does none of these things. She must have some keener sense about people (or maybe just you, or maybe just loss) than you originally realized. She simply stays beside you, without trying to make you feel better, without trying to pretend like everything’s okay, without doing anything. Just… letting you be sad. Letting you be sad, and yet not alone, either. Sometimes that’s all a person wants.

You rest your head over hers. 

Tears don’t come. Some sadnesses feel deeper than anything your physical body can express. Or maybe you’ve just accepted it a long, long time ago. Maybe you accepted it the first time you had to hide in the attic from your own kin. Or the first time you realized that you couldn't do a single thing to save her. Maybe you accepted it when you ran away. Whenever it was, at some point, you had learned the truth yourself, and it took being told it - shown it - to consciously _know_. 

You’ll always miss her, though. The real her. The her before. 

Creepiest thing is, it’s almost hard to remember the _before_. You fight to dig up the dredges. 

There’s little memories. Her sitting on your bed, face strained because she’d just fought with the man that called himself your dad, and she looked so pretty at the time, so pretty but so broken, and she stroked your hair and promised things would be better. She asked if you wanted to get ice cream and you'd naively jumped at the chance, smiling like stupid ice cream was the only thing that mattered.

There’s a memory of her looking at the fridge, with only sparse items on the shelf, and you standing beside her, tummy grumbling. She smiled, and gave you the last bits of leftovers, while she herself went without eating. You never noticed enough, how much she sacrificed for you.

Nothing was ever easy. And you took it for granted. Maybe if, closer to the start of things, you’d paid more attention, been better…. No. It doesn’t do any good to play the what-if games. Deep down, you know it would have changed nothing.

Your fingers graze over the surface of a puddle, forming ripples that distort your own reflection. You wish you had flowers, or any gesture to signal mourning for a soul that’s no longer in this world. You don’t have anything, though. Not even basic necessities. “Lo siento, mamá,” you whisper. “Hasta siempre.”

Six lifts her head and glances at you curiously. 

You don’t say anything more, and she rests her head on you again.

Some time later, you broach the silence, “She wasn’t always like… that. She was a good person.” What a simple understatement. Didn’t begin to convey the sort of person she was. Can words ever really capture people like that, though? Nonetheless, Six listens carefully, attentively. That, at least, makes you feel that even if you’re fumbling words, Six grasps some depth to them. She gets that there’s more to it. 

“She used to have so much energy… she’s the one that taught me so many games, even when she wasn’t supposed to. She wasn’t ever too old for anything, y’know? Sometimes I made fun of her for that, but… I really shouldn't have.” Your throat tightens. “This is the kinda world that needs more fun in it.”

Six nods her assent.

“I’ll miss her,” you say, finally. You’ve been missing her for a long, long time. But maybe that’s the sort of thing that never really goes away. It always stays with you.

* * *

As the morning presses on, Six eventually wanders from your side, and goes further down the alley. She picks up a stick, and draws lines in puddles that become ripples and disappear. 

You watch her quietly, thoughtfully. 

For a long time, you had considered your mother the only family you had left.

There’s some reassurance in knowing that isn’t quite true anymore.

Six is family now, isn’t she? She’s _strange_ family. There’s a lot about her you don’t know (it seems the more you learn, the less you know). A lot about her that scares you, even. Which is… kinda funny to think about, watching her now, swatting at the puddles. She’s a lot of contradictions in one person. You do know that she’s loyal. That the two of you have been through a lot together, in a short period of time. That she’s got your back, and you’ve got hers. That neither of you have anyone else. 

So… yeah. Family. 

She makes you feel not so alone, even in your darkest times. Especially then.

You haul yourself up, body sore from sitting hunched in the same position most of the morning, and wander over to her. She lifts her head curiously, mid-puddle-swat.

“You’re a mess,” you tell her, a half-smile at your lips, referencing the fact she’s got blood and a lot of dirt on her.

She makes an offended noise, but grins back. No matter what happens, you’re glad her playful attitude can still show itself. 

“We’re both messes,” you remediate.

All you've got are puddles to clean yourselves in, but it works well enough. Six splashes water on her face and wipes down her coat, while you rinse your hands, and then tackle the wounds on your feet. By this point, the bandages Six put on them are ragged, torn, and dirtied to the point of uselessness. Unfortunately, you don’t have any clean bandages, so you peel off the old ones and simply rinse your feet to the best of your ability. The wounds are a bit bruised-looking around the edges, but all the cuts are at least sealed, so barring their re-opening, they will hopefully be fine. 

While you finish up, Six shakes herself like a dog, and then trots off. 

You find her a few minutes later, perched on construction debris and peering down the side of the street.

“What are you doing?” you ask, but of course, she’s not paying much attention.

Sighing, you scramble up the debris after her and follow her line of sight. Ah. It makes sense, then. The Signal Tower’s cold metal exterior gleams high above the other buildings, like a Goliath amongst so many smaller victims. She’s ready to go, it seems like. Probably was ready hours ago.

“It seems like I’m always holding you back,” you apologize. First with the injuries on your feet, now with the morning spent doing nothing. 

She shrugs.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” 

She grabs your collar very suddenly, drags you down to her height, and squishes her cheek against yours. It’s such a puzzling gesture. Not one anyone’s ever done to you before. That doesn’t mean it’s bad, though. Her cheek is soft, and you can feel her smile. She pulls away, eyes sparking. 

“Okay,” you say breathily. “Doesn’t bother you, then.”

Having proved her point, she leans out to look at the Signal Tower again, maybe plotting a route.

“In that case,” you add mischievously, “I’m going to delay you more.”

She glances back in confusion, just in time for you to boop the tip of her tiny nose. “_Gotcha_.” You leap off the debris, cackling, and skitter away, while Six pounces in pursuit. 

“You said you didn’t mind!” You call back to Six, only belatedly remembering that you should be _quiet. _Which is so bizarre: normally you have to try really hard just to talk, but talking has come easy to you lately. Still, you slow down, mindful of the fact anyone could hear you, and turn to tell Six that you should probably have not started the game. 

Not expecting your abrupt halt, Six runs straight into you, and you nearly fall over, catching yourself just in time for her finger to poke your nose. 

She leaps away, grinning. 

“Not fair,” you whine. “I wasn’t playing right then.”

She sticks out her tongue. Dang, she’s savage. If anyone takes the work hard, play hard thing seriously, it’s definitely her. You’re not just gonna take that lying down, though, no way. You spring after Six, and soon her legs are churning as she bolts away. She’s _fast. _Faster than you, actually. Joke’s on her, though, because she reaches the end of the alley, and has to veer back. When she tries to skirt around you, you snag her coat and the both of you sprawl to the ground. 

Squealing, Six tries to kick and shove you off, leading to a ridiculous struggle with lots of flailing limbs. Several times your finger gets within inches of her nose, only for her to shove it away. Soon her methods turn from defense to offense, and the both of you furiously attempt to bap the other’s nose while fending off attacks. Any record of who’s got the most boops falls to the wayside, and it stops mattering entirely when you both devolve into a bunch of giggles, poking each other’s noses and cheeks. 

Then something clangs just outside the alley. 

The game is forgotten. All sense of play is gone. Both of you detangle, scramble up, and flatten against the wall, tense and wary. Got too loud. Too rambunctious. Too obvious. Now someone’s heard you. Now they’ll get you. That’s what runs through your head. 

Your heart feels like it’s gonna thump right out of your chest. Waiting for disaster. 

The seconds tick by. A few voices talk outside the alley. 

Then, they move on. Silence. Nothing.

You huff out a breath in relief. Was just a random noise. You’re safe. 

Six punches your arm and shoots you a grin, like _hey, it was fun, though. _

It was. Honestly? You'd really needed something light-hearted. Now the sober reality is creeping back in, but it doesn’t get you down quite as bad as it had before. “Still,” you whisper back, “maybe no more playing here.” 

She nods.

“When we get out of the Tower,” you promise quietly, “When everything’s better.”

She shoots you a thumbs-up, but she’s got this look in her eye like she’s probably not going to wait. What a little menace. “If I knew you’d be such a pain with games, I never would have started one,” you tease, and she crosses her arms knowingly, like, _oh yeah, sure. _

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m being honest!”

She holds aside her bangs, specifically to lift one eyebrow cynically.

You slap your palms over your mouth to stifle a bark of a laugh. She’s impossible! It takes a great deal of self control not to spitefully boop her nose one more time (you could probably get her by surprise if you moved fast enough) because she’d totally lose it and wouldn't stop until she got you back, you’re sure. Once you get control of yourself, you say sternly, “focus. We need to work on getting to the Signal Tower, right?”

She holds up her hand like a mouth and opens and closes it, rolling her eyes. _Blah blah blah._

“_Six_!” She is _really_ having trouble focusing. 

She grins. 

“This is _your_ idea-“ 

_Blah blah blah _goes her hand.

Clearly, focusing is impossible right now. All fine. Fine then. She asked for it. 

Your hand darts out quick. Too quick, actually. Instead of booping her nose, you effectively slap her entire face. Six yelps, and _you_ yelp, and then you’re frantically hovering over her to make sure she’s okay. "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry-" Her shoulders shake, and you’re terrified that you really hurt her.  Then you realize she’s laughing, and perfectly all right. The mistake was you leaning in close to check, because she playfully whaps your face next.

You both give up on planning for the Signal Tower - at least for the moment. The world can wait just a few minutes more.


	15. Alley

“Six.”

No response. She’s very, very intently occupied.

“…Six.”

She smushes a charcoal-stained finger to her lips, then continues what she was doing.

“Six, please.” Your stomach grumbles as if to add emphasis. 

“_Shh!_” 

You sigh. All right. You’ll just have to wait till she’s done. 

See, Six found a little nib of charcoal on the ground, and decided that _clearly_ the best thing to do with it is draw little patterns all over your arm and hand. So she has your left sleeve pushed up past your elbow, and she’s hard at work creating some artistic monstrosity with swirly loopy lines and occasional jagged edges. She doesn’t seem to have any particular picture or image in mind: she’s simply creating intricate designs that look aesthetically pleasing. There is truly nothing you can do. She’s got you caught. You in no way could have prevented this and in no way can stop it now, nope. And you’re definitely not breathing especially shallowly in an effort to be as still as possible for her art. 

…. Okay, fine, you don’t actually mind this at all. The glide of charcoal over your skin is kinda rough, but her grip is gentle, and it doesn’t bother you being her canvas, or being the singular focus of her attention. Nonetheless, an oncoming headache reminds you that you haven’t eaten or drank anything since last night, and the sun overhead serves as a warning that the morning is gone. It was nice, for a time, to forget how dangerous the world is, but the two of you should really be getting back to your mission. (Boy, you’re not used to being the responsible one). 

Fortunately, Six is just adding in the final few whorls, then she drops the charcoal and sits back on her heels, satisfied.

You turn your arm over before your eyes, inspecting the work. 

Charcoal and skin don’t seem to be the best mediums, black flakes left like dander all over your arm, but… otherwise, it looks really nice. Kind of creepy. You can’t glean any sense out of it, but maybe it’s not supposed to make sense. It just has a certain look to it. Eerie but pretty, and it gives you the impression of your arm captured in the clutches of something dark, except the dark is part of you.

“Thanks,” you say.

Having gotten your approval, she tugs your sleeve down, so the only visible marks are tendrils furling out from under your sleeve, over the back of your hand, and around your fingers. It kind of looks like her shadows, actually, although the resemblance may have been accidental. You clench and relax your fist, admiring the way the lines move over your hand. Enjoying the idea that they continue up under your sleeve, where nobody else can see them, and only the two of you know they’re there. 

Six brushes her hands off, and stands up.

“Can I get food now?” You ask, half-joking.

Nod-nod. 

“And get ready to go to the Signal Tower?”

A more serious shadow passes over her face. Her nod this time is more firm. 

Water, first. You sip that from a puddle(not the same one Six washed herself in though - that one is tinged red). Next, food. Your options are admittedly not great. You return to the trash pile, where you try your hardest to ignore the festering corpse of the partly-eaten rat, occupied by flies. Instead, you hunt for anything remotely edible. A few moldy soggy pieces of bread you salvage, and nibble on until you can’t eat any more without feeling like you’re going to vomit. The worst parts of them you throw back into the trash. Your stomach is still hollow and empty, but it’s hard to feel hungry with the overpowering stench of rotting meat and old food so near. Trying to help, Six drags over a large basket that has ripped-up remnants of chicken fingers and fries. It would be a gold mine, if not for the fact this is clearly something she dug _out_ of the trash, rather than something that was sitting on _top. _Everything is a bit…damp, and smeared with other foods. Not to mention it’s littered with marks that look like they came from rat teeth rather than human teeth.

Well. Sometimes you gotta. Holding down the impulse to throw up, you grab one of the cleanest-looking pieces of fry, and pop it in your mouth. It’s horrible. Squishy in a way fries aren’t really supposed to be, with more flavors that come from other foods soaking into it. You swallow quickly, and at least appreciate that there’s a lingering salty after-taste. This is still one of the worst meals you've ever had. Food is food, though, and there’s no telling when you’ll next be able to eat. Somehow, you manage to stomach enough until you’re either full, or just can’t fathom the idea of swallowing one more bite. Probably more the latter, honestly. 

“I’m beginning to think your fresh rat isn’t such a bad idea,” you mutter to Six, who was watching you eat with a mixture of concern and horrified amusement. As if she’s got room to talk!

Speaking of the rat, though… Being able to catch live prey in the future might come in handy. Too often you and Six end up in situations where you need tools, and don’t have them. You even lost your ladle back at the house, so you’re currently out of a weapon. 

Frankly, Six has a tendency to run recklessly into situations without thinking about it and without gathering supplies beforehand. As a whole, it has worked out pretty well, in part because of her quick thinking, and in part because of her speed and agility. If you’re going to the Signal Tower, though, you’re probably going to need more than just that.

“Let’s get the wire,” you decide, “so I can catch something later if we need to.” You’re not too eager at the idea of retrieving the wire from the dead rat. Luckily, without question or hesitation, Six bounces over to the corpse, and begins to peel the embedded metal from the fly-ridden meat of the rat’s neck. Yuck. In all fairness, she probably has a really high tolerance for gore. You'd rather not watch, so you instead start prowling through the trash again, looking for anything you can use as supplies. No food is worth carrying with you, which is unfortunate, but maybe something else could be useful…. Egg cartons, plastic utensils, a lot of styrofoam, broken glass (yeah, maybe an okay weapon, but you’d rather not touch it), old clothing, shoes, a piece of soap, wine corks….

Six materializes at your side, the blood-stained wire in her hands. She holds it out. Oh. Um. Well, she’s definitely eager, and you like to see her so happy. But… “Let’s wash that first.”

She agrees and sets it aside, before joining your hunt for useful items. As the afternoon arrives, you add (shocked at your own casualness - but really, it is just food), “You want me to catch another one?”

She shakes her head, but you understand it as a _not now_ rather than a _not ever. _Keeping the wire around is definitely smart. You’re very mindful of the fact she’ll most likely need to eat tonight, so you’ll need to be prepared. 

As for the tool hunt, you and Six come out of your dumpster diving disappointingly empty-handed. As well as very dirty. The puddles at least prove to be useful for cleaning off again, although by this point they’re shallow and warm and not all that clean themselves. Some diligent rinsing gets the metal wire looking much less bloody, though, and you wind it in a circle before securing it to your belt loop. That way you can carry it with you while leaving your hands free, without it obstructing movements.

The paper bag you fluff out and tug onto your head again.

“There,” you say. “Ready to be a hero.”

Six taps her lips, looking at you thoughtfully. 

“What?” Is there something off? Something wrong?

Nabbing a plastic bag, she does her best to affix it to the back of your collar, which you’re confused about until you realize she’s trying to give you a _cape_, of all things. “Six!” You chuckle, twisting around and trying to disrupt her efforts, “Stop, I can’t have a cape-“

She only doubles her efforts and slaps away your hands. 

“Especially not a plastic bag, that’s just dumb-“ 

Nonetheless, she pulls away, and the paper bag flaps behind you. You cross your arms. “Very not funny.”

She, apparently, very much disagrees, so for her amusement, you march around a bit trying to look important and heroic with the plastic bag flapping majestically in the wind. You even mime taking down some Masked Students, while Six giggles at your antics, until the paper bag dislodges itself and floats to the ground. She's gotten quite a lot of play out of today, which you're grateful for. But some time you'll have to set to what you came for.

“All right,” you say softly. “We can’t stay here forever. Ready?”

She holds up a finger, _one minute. _Next thing you know, she’s darted to your side, and her hands are digging into your pockets. At first you think she’s playing another game, but it’s a really weird one if so, and you yelp, trying to dance away while she searches around.

She pulls away with the lighter in her hands. Oh. So that’s what she was doing.

“You want the lighter?” You don’t really mind, you just had no idea she was interested in it. 

She points at herself. 

“Yeah, you can have it.” 

Rolling her eyes, she points at the lighter, and then herself. 

“Really, you can keep it, it’s okay. I just found it.”

Six growls and throws up her hands. Whatever she’s upset about, though, you don’t figure it out. Ultimately, she tucks the lighter into her own pocket. She must have seen it when you brought it out at your house, and then wanted it for herself… Honestly, you’re glad to have it pass into someone else’s hands. Although having the thing around is too useful to leave it behind, after the Market, you’re not incredibly eager to use it again. 

After that, there’s nothing left to delay you. Ready to go, then. You take a deep breath. 

This is something you've been thinking about on and off throughout the day - how exactly you’re going to make it to the Signal Tower. The whole idea is that people aren’t supposed to get close to it. So figuring out a route there without getting caught… that’s not an easy business. But you have an idea. 

Lifting up your marked hand, and clenching your fingers to make the charcoal lines move, you propose the idea to Six, “What if we went through the Factory?”

She tilts her head to the side; you drop your hand and meet her gaze. “It’s the single largest building in the whole city… it starts a couple blocks from here, and if we travel through there, we can make it pretty close to the Signal Tower. Without taking the streets.”

You can tell from her expression that the idea is a novel one to her, and you feel a little proud for coming up with it. She nods in agreement, and it’s decided.

You’ll be diving into the world again. Into danger. But really, what’s new?


	16. Factory

Two blocks away from the alley, you’ve ripped off your paper bag and are vomiting into the gutter. The French fries and chicken fingers were definitely a bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Horrendous idea, actually. Groaning, you wipe your lips and lean your forehead against the cool wall. Hero, whoo. That’s you. One hundred percent. 

While you recover, Six stands attentively beside you, sweeping her gaze back and forth down the street. She’s alert. Not tense in the way a nervous person might be, but relaxed and cautious. _Experienced_, you suppose the word is. As soon as the two of you left the alley, she returned to that more serious, reserved demeanor, putting it back on like a familiar cloak. Now her mouth is a firm line, her eyes are hidden by her hood, and she looks like any second, she’d be ready to fight or run. It’s almost scary how seamlessly she can shift back into that mindset. You suppose a lifetime of running will do that to somebody. 

Spitting out foul-tasting saliva, you sigh. As for you, you’re mostly okay now… You pull the paper bag back down and nod to Six to signal you’re ready. 

Together you creep nearer to the Factory.

There’s no cover of night to protect you now, no shadows to conceal you, so your progression is a jagged, tedious one. Frequently the two of you have to stop and huddle together, hiding until the towering adults pass. It’s a messed up _red light, green light_ kind of game, where one moment you might have to be racing along at breakneck speed, and the next moment you might have to be frozen, motionless, for minutes on end. Every second is a risk. Worse, this area lies outside of the knowledge Six stole from the kid at the Market: although she’s incredibly good at assessing which places might be strategic to run to, she clearly is going off her read of the area, rather than any pre-existing knowledge. 

You can’t even be too helpful, since this isn’t an area you were ever fond of treading near. Nobody in their sane mind would want to be here. This is where buildings are the tallest, sweeping up into the murky sky, and yet where the pits are the lowest, huge sink holes that descend into black, sightless depths, that have swallowed up buildings and people, and that would swallow up you, too, if you get too close. And everything: the buildings, and the light poles, the clock tower, the people, all of it is bowed towards the Signal Tower, like tired worshippers who have forgotten what it’s like to stand upright. 

This place has always unnerved you. You’ve been here only a few times, with your mother, and now the illusion of her protection is gone. You wrestle down the despairing thought that _all_ of her is gone now, without any hope of repair. That’s not something you can linger on long. Not something you _want_ to linger on long. 

One way or another, you’re going to have to pass through the Factory to get to the Signal Tower. So your sore feet tread over concrete and defunct train tracks, dodging sharp metal and black puddles. Neither of you speak. You already, strangely, miss the freedom of talking, though it’s not something you ever craved before. Maybe after the Signal Tower. Maybe then you can laugh, and play around, and talk as much as you like. On a darker note, maybe then you process your mother’s absence, too. It seems very much like a lot of emotions and a lot of thoughts get put on hold, once you enter especially dangerous territory like this. (Is that how Six feels, too?)

At some point your hand slips into Six’s, and she leads while the two of you creep ever closer to the Factory. Soon enough its gargantuan belching mass emerges from the desolation and fog. Smoke stacks chug black pollution into the sky overhead, drowning out the sun. Here, it’s an eternal night. You shudder.

The adults call this the Hospital; kids call it the Factory. In reality, it’s a little of both, and a little of neither. It’s a Hospital because people go here to get better, to get fixed, except you don’t think the people that come here are in need of _fixing_. It’s a Factory because it produces masks and limbs and bodies and whatever you might need, except you don’t think people should be the main product of a Factory.

So whatever it is, it’s here. And you’ve never snuck into it before, because why would any kid _want_ to do that? Kids only went to the Factory when they had no choice, and you’ve never actually been inside yourself. All you know is it extends towards the Signal Tower, and gets closer than any other building. They might even be connected, somehow, but you've never known for sure. 

For some time, you and Six hover a safe distance, just watching it. Considering how to enter. 

You yourself only know of one entrance: the front. Twice a day, those great big doors open. Once, for patients to enter. Once, for them to leave. At the moment, those doors are sealed firmly shut. Nobody comes in or out. You really don’t like your chances of entering through that way. Which leaves… not a whole lot. The Factory doesn’t have many windows, not until the upper floors. 

Six tugs your hand, and tilts her head. _What about this?_

She’s looking at the southmost side of the Factory, which is the least visible, shrouded in fog and shadow. Beside it is a pit that goes down down down, and you know that at the bottom of that pit, there are vents which spew out smoke and miasma. You’ve never seen them yourself, but this is what you have been told. Above that abyss hang dozens of beds, suspended by rope as if hung to death, and levered all at different heights. Their nooses trail up and up into the fog, and disappear into a lattice of woodwork that is only faintly visible from here. 

Six’s finger traces a path out for you, from the edge of the pit, to the nearest bed, up the rope, to the woodwork. Maybe there you can find a way to enter. Instinctively, you balk and shake your head, because one mistake and you’d be plummeting to your death. Surely there’s another way?

Six indulges your cowardice and follows while you circle around part of the Factory, hunting for any other route in. Thing is, only the most impractical and unlikely of routes would ever be left open. They don’t want folks sneaking in and out of the Factory, and they’ve done well to shut it off from anyone that shouldn't be there. Hard as you try, there is no other way in that you can find, and time is only ever ticking. It frustrates you, skirting around the edges of the building without your search ever yielding any fruit, while Six remains infinitely patient behind you. You almost wish she would get impatient and force you to follow her route, because you’re wasting a lot of time, but she doesn’t. Just waits. Finally, you have to accept that all alternatives have been barred. You’ll have to try the route she suggested.

The two of you creep nearer to the pit with its vents exhaling foul-smelling waste. The bed hung closest to you is still a good ways away…. Far enough that you’ll have to jump for it, which flips your stomach in all unpleasant ways (or maybe that’s still a bit of the fries you ate, settling weird).

When Six fearlessly leaps across the gap before you even realize she’s going to, you decide that yeah, it’s the fear, not the bad food. Twisting your fingers together, you hover nervously at the edge of the pit, while Six rightens herself on the bed and waves invitingly at you. Like it’s nothing at all to trust your own agility to make that gap. Haha, no. 

Well. _She_ did it. Not that that meant much. 

C’mon, you had faced much worse than this. You had escaped the Hunter and the Fetcher. Had slipped right under the Teacher’s nose, and battled Masked Students. What was one little jump?

Shaking off the nerves, you back up, and take the leap running. Bare feet churn above an abyss. Your heart soars into your throat, gravity seizes your body, and as you fall, your hand shoots out - Six snags it. With a strength beyond her size, she pulls you onto the bed and you collapse on all fours, gasping. That was scary close. You look up, and she throws you a wily look - a small hint of her playful personality. She was _impossible_. Still, you can’t help grinning back. You made it. Six turns and begins to ascend the rope. No hesitation. Well, after her confidence, you’re not going to hesitate, either.

Up up up you ascend, until everything beneath, above, and around you is just fog. It’s like you've exited reality entirely, and gone into a new world, a world without anybody but Six and yourself. An eerie world, though, a quiet one. So immersive is the experience that at some point you get confused about what is up and what is down. If you let go of the rope, would you fall in the direction your feet are, or in the opposite way? Or would you fall backwards, forwards, consumed in the mirage of fog? These kinds of thoughts make you dizzy, and you cling to the rope only tighter because of them. 

Just follow Six. That’s all. Follow Six.

So you do. 

Eventually, your perseverance is rewarded: out of the fog emerges a wooden beam, on which the rope is tied. Six clambers up onto it, and scoots to the side to help you up. Soon you’re both standing on the wood plank, which is no wider than your two feet side by side. The exertion leaves you a little light-headed (you’re tired of thinking about food, but… food would be good soon. Probably for Six, too). 

Once you gather yourself and stand up, your heartbeat’s going like crazy. Even the slightest wind could so easily topple you. Arms held at your sides, balancing precariously, the two of you traverse the beam, until you reach the Factory’s grimy blackened facade.Not far, there’s a little square window, hardly large enough for even bodies as small as yours to climb through. No need for people to really see in or out, after all. 

Six clambers onto the window ledge, which is small enough to nearly give you a heart attack. One misstep, and she’d go plunging down the abyss of fog to her death. Your muscles are tense as you’re perched in a crouch, like you’d ever be able to grab her and save her from falling without dooming yourself to the same fate. 

Six positions herself very, very carefully, and presses her fingers to the wooden paneling on the window. She’s clearly testing the window to see if it will simply open, and it surprises you and her both when the window actually pushes open easily. It wasn’t even locked. They likely don’t expect people to _want_ to sneak in, much less expect two kids to make it all the way to this floor from the outside…

Six throws a surprised look at you like, _hey, that’s lucky,_ then she drops into the room. 

Hurriedly you scramble after her (trying hard not to think of the drop far below) and tumble into the room as well, landing hard next to her and sending sawdust poofing into the air. Six throws her sleeve over her mouth to cough quietly; an apology dies at your lips when your eyes rove around the room. 

This is one ward, doubtless of many, but as you've never been inside any, it’s your first look. The place smells musty and heavy, both of sickness, fresh wood, and despair. Here, breathing is difficult, not unlike you’re underwater. Perhaps nobody had opened the window in years, if ever. Thick coats of sawdust litter the entire floor, making your nose itch, but the sawdust is only the beginning of the mess. There’s too many occupied beds, too many nightstands, and on each pours forth countless detached limbs - mostly hands, turned over on their backs like abandoned turtles, but also some feet, legs, arms, and glaring masks of sizes that might fit the smallest child, to sizes that far dwarfed your body. Although it had to be coincidence and nothing more, many of those eyes seem to be staring at you. 

You tug your paper bag, just to make sure it’s covering your entire face (it is). 

Scattered amongst the limbs are tools. Tools for carving, shaping, chiseling, flaying. … Those might come in handy, actually. 

You stumble nearer to one, and pick it up: it’s a tiny carving knife with a thick scuffed wooden handle, but a small, lethally sharp blade. On one hand, you’re not used to carrying around something that could be a weapon like this. On the other hand, you might _really_ need it. Anyway, you kind of like the way your hand looks wrapped around it, with your skin wreathed in the charcoal shadows Six had drawn on you. Swiftly you adjust the rat-catching wire so that, instead of being knotted in your belt loops, it’s circled around your torso, over your left shoulder and around your right hip, which puts it in a good place for you to add a few extra knots and loops, which you attach the carving knife to. Not unlike a sword across a knight’s back, which you’d feel more proud about if you weren’t so terrified you’d be coming across a situation where the knife would be necessary.

You’re adjusting the position to make sure the point doesn’t accidentally stab you in the back of the head (that’s the exact opposite of heroism), when something moves in the corner of your vision and you spin around. 

Oh. It’s just Six. And you’re clearly high strung. 

Letting out a shaky breath, you get your bearings. The room itself is cramped and narrow but long. On either side, there’s a row of beds pushed as close together as possible while still leaving room to walk between them. Each bed has dirty white sheets, and although you’re not tall enough to be sure, you hazard a guess by the lumpy shapes and hands and feet sticking down that every bed is occupied by either an adult or a child. 

The movement that caught your attention was Six approaching one of these eyes - a very, very small one, smaller even than your own. Six is staring at it intently, oddly. Perhaps because it isn’t a flesh and blood hand anymore. That’s something you’re used to, though: that’s really the whole point of the Factory.

What catches your attention, however, is the nightstand beside that bed, where there’s a pewter plate and silverware. More importantly, there’s some food left on it. From your perspective, you can just barely glimpse a bit of rice and bread. It’s a testament to the poor and sparse meals you've been having lately that you salivate at the mere sight of someone else’s leftover food. 

There’s nothing you can do for the people in the beds. At the moment they’re sleeping (strapped down, too, if the leather restraints are any indication), and disturbing them would only risk exposure. But you can get yourself fed, and get enough energy to hopefully make it from one end of this building to the other. 

With a tap on her side and a jerk of your chin, Six is more than willing to help out. She goes on all fours in front of the nightstand and looks up at you like, _okay, ready._ That’s not exactly what you intended, but you don’t have any better ideas. So, feeling a bit bad about using her as a stepping stool, you do your best to steady your weight onto her back. With the added height, you’re able to reach up and snag the handle on the drawer, upon which you dangle while Six scoots out from under you.

Okay. Just need to pull yourself up now… preferably without making noise. The people in these beds might be on your side, but more likely than not, they aren’t. 

Gritting your teeth, you try to pull yourself up, and when that doesn’t work (geez, you’re really light headed right now, not at your top strength to begin with), you end up doing ridiculous gymnastics in an effort to loop your toes into the handle as well until at last you succeed. From there, you’re able to awkwardly shimmy yourself up - twice nearly falling - until you’re on the night stand at last. And then - rice. Rice and some carrot and peas. All _fresh_. Well, mostly fresh. And not freeze dried or rotting or anything.

Delighted, you thump your butt down next to the plate and start shoveling in food rabidly. A glass of water beside the plate sates your thirst, while you eat enough rice and vegetables to feel more full than you've been in a while. Just as you sit back, licking your fingers, your stomach grumbles. That doesn’t make any sense, though, you literally just finished - 

The noise happens again, and this time you understand: it wasn’t your stomach. 

Leaning over the nightstand, you catch gazes with Six, and she looks worried. 

Right. 

She’s hungry now, too.


	17. Factory

Your stomach is a tight knot of nerves. Not because of her hunger in itself - that you’re used to, and to some extent, it’s almost second nature to begin searching for sustenance. The trouble is that no matter where you go with Six, her hunger is a specter that relentlessly trails her, and it emerges at the worst of times: you’re in the Factory now, which is a whole different world of dangerous and unpredictable. At least in the past, your collective knowledge about the woods and town were able to get you through from place to place. But here? It’s all unknown. There’s no telling how long it will take you two to traverse the Factory, or what sort of things you’ll encounter along the way. Even in this room, with everyone sleeping, you don’t feel remotely safe, and you dread that feeling is only going to worsen over time. If she’s stricken with her hunger later in the Factory, what kind of danger will it put you two in? 

….. What kind of danger are you _already_ in? That’s a more imminent question. And a very good one. Because she needs to eat, soon, and you’re not stupid enough to believe the remaining rice and bread on your plate will be sufficient. Maybe someone else has food that Six would find fitting. So you stand on your toes and peer across the room, over the dozens of people strapped tight into their beds. No luck. Although some other nightstands have food, none of it is the sort that would interest Six.

Next, you drop down and scuffle around the room, hunting in corners and under beds, finding only dust bunnies and wood shavings. You’re aware of how futile your actions are, and how ridiculous you look. Yet you can’t help investigating every single corner and cubby and cranny, frightened to consider the ramifications if you can’t find anything. 

Maybe… maybe you could go back down and into the streets, winding your way to the garbage to catch another rat. Only that would take another half day, at least, and by then it wouldn’t matter anyway, because Six can’t hold out that long. You doubt there are rats in the Factory, either, certainly not this many floors up. Dark as it is to consider, nobody keeps pets in the Factory either.

You continue hunting around the furniture, long past the time it’s obvious there’s nothing. The entire time, Six remains in the center of the room, her gaze following you silently. Without her saying anything, you can easily guess what she’s thinking, and you don’t like it. She’s thinking that the whole room is full of food, if you were just a bit more lenient. She’s waiting for you to come to the same conclusion that she has. 

Of course, she’s usually more objective than you. In her perspective, there are two options for what she can eat right now: one of the bed-ridden patients, or you. Loathe as you are to admit it, the analytical part of your brain knows she’s right. Someone has to die. You don’t have the courage to let that person be yourself, and anyway - you need to help Six reach the Signal Tower, right? With the power of a soul, too, she could go for much longer without eating, and the shadows would be able to protect you against threats in the Factory. It’s necessary. The cleverest solution. But it means condemning someone to death. 

The emotional part of your brain heaves against the decision, and scrabbles for other options. Maybe you can delve deeper into the Factory, and hope you come across something along the way. Six is upright, her eyes are clear: the hunger isn’t too bad yet, so you still have some time. There has to be a designated place to eat here, like a kitchen, or a cafeteria, right? Probably both, somewhere. … You may not know where, and the Factory might be an enormous labyrinth that you could spend hours traversing, but… _somewhere…_

Your chest feels tight. Six waits, resolute. 

No no no

The rat was one thing; a living person is something else entirely. The kid in the Market was the only exception, because there was no other choice, and both you and Six had tried your hardest to prevent it.

But isn’t this a comparable situation? There is no other option here, either.

You twist your fingers together anxiously. 

It’s… it’s sort of a mercy thing, isn’t it? If Six devoured one of the patients? Because otherwise, their souls will be corrupted and perverted and ripped away little by little, like your mother’s. At least Six’s method is quick. Even death is better than being a lifeless puppet controlled by the televisions.

Six, however, has tired of waiting for your approval. Frankly, you don’t blame her. She’s already been patient enough; she’s always been patient with you. She has even indulged your stubbornness at the risk of her own health, like when she ate the meat in the Store that made her sick, or when she wrestled with her own nature while you were unlocking the cage, or when she tore herself away from your mother at your command. In this instance, her patience has run out. Her look is a sad one, like she’s afraid you won’t see her the same way, but it’s also resolute. Whether you’re comfortable with it or not, she’s going to eat. She steps towards one of the beds; panic surges again.

“Wait-“ you grab her sleeve, and when she looks back at you, you don’t know what to do or say.

Your mind mocks you, because when you were younger, you never helped anyone. Your mother would bring you to the Market, and you’d see the kids in cages and do nothing. Or you’d go to School, and hear the kids locked up banging on the door, and you’d do nothing. You’d go to the Store, and see the slabs of meat available for sale, and you’d do nothing. 

All your life, you’ve been doing nothing. Until very recently, that’s what had come naturally to you. Until Six had shown you there was another way. 

Now… now you’re torn. 

Six gently pries your fingers off, only for you to snatch her wrist again. _No._ You’re not ready.

Sneeringly, your mind retorts, what’s one more kid? After everything you ignored? After everything you did? And you’re getting upset with her, for simply fulfilling an innate need? For choosing the most logical option? 

Six’s lips have formed into a hard, stubborn frown. You’re being selfish. You’re being stupid.

She tears out of your grip. 

“_Wait_!” You speak too loudly. On a nearby bed, a patient makes a plaintive moan, woken from their rest. Their large body shifts and the bed frame creaks and groans with their weight.

Dispute forgotten, you and Six skitter under another bed across the room, on high alert. If someone’s awake, then it’s not safe to be out. The patient in question is little more than a fleshy lump, no discernible features to be made out, not from your angle. But you and Six watch fearfully as they writhe in their restraints. They’re definitely awake. 

The patient begins distressed mumbling. They don’t seem aware of where they are, or even who they are. They don’t seem aware of the room around them, either, or the people in the other beds. They’re trapped in their own fear, in their own misery. Their mumbling is for their sake only, and it’s disjointed, rambling, so much so that even though you can make out individual words, you can’t connect them in any meaningful way. It unnerves you for reasons that are hard to define. The patient doesn’t sound sane. At all. Maybe they started sane, when they entered the Factory but well… as you had said earlier - the Factory, or Hospital, was not for healing people. Not truly. 

Shuddering, you hunch in a tighter ball. You wish they would stop talking. Only they seem to be waking up more and more, their words coming faster and faster and fasterandfasterand- 

The noise rouses others. More patients wake and call out, as if searching for something they’re missing, something that’s no longer there, and their words are filled with fear and confusion. More and more, until the room is a cacophony of distress, thick with the sounds of lost people waking to find themselves only part of what they were before, if they even remember what that was.

You clap your hands to your ears and squeeze your eyes shut. The sound is horrible. You want it to stop. Six presses close to your side, but even that is a paltry comfort against the inundating racket. 

The door slams open. One final voice roars to silence all the others, and then you and Six are cowering back further into the shadows. 

Huge feet stomp to the first bed. From your vantage, it’s hard to see what’s going on, but you do see the ends of the man’s white coat brushing his shoes. The doctor. You see his shadow descend over the bed. You hear the whimpers and horrified moans of the patient, which are ultimately silenced. From bed to bed the doctor goes, occasionally saying a few words which are perhaps meant to be soothing but only come across as sinister. One by one, the patients are quieted, though you think their silence has nothing to do with the doctor’s reassurances, and everything to do with whatever procedure he’s inflicting upon them. Bed straps are tightened. Order is returned. 

The doctor hovers for a moment longer, as if ensuring there is nothing amiss. All he would have to do is kneel down and look under the beds to find you. But he doesn’t. 

Solemnly, he turns and strides from the room, slamming the door behind him. 

Nothing but silence, again. Silence artificially wrought, perhaps, but silence nonetheless. Until Six’s stomach growls. She hunches up, teeth gritted, as you worriedly touch your hand to her shoulder. The worst of hunger pang lifts, but it served a clear reminder about what she plans to do. About what she will do. If you don’t stop her… if you don’t stop her… then you'll be letting it happen, just like at the Market, except in that case you at least _tried. _Here, now, you’d be complicit. If you _do_ stop her, though… That’s a weird thought, because you know you can’t. But if you _do_ \- as you should - then… then she starves? Or she’ll only grow hungrier and hungrier until… well, until you suppose you become the meal. 

There’s no alternative right now. 

Six throws you a look. It’s a searching one. Her mind is already made up: she’s already decided, and she won’t be letting you stop her. So the look isn’t asking permission. It’s asking forgiveness, albeit without expecting it. Honestly, the look terrifies and amazes you. It shows that she’s fully prepared to continue this quest entirely alone, if you refuse to agree with her actions. That’s something almost unfathomable to you, and it’s a testament to her determination. The thing you latch on to, though, is that she’s bothering to look for your approval at all. She _can_ go on without you. But she doesn’t _want_ to. 

Your mouth is dry. You don’t know what it is: if it’s the reminder of danger (the doctor), or the helplessness of the situation, or Six’s resolve. Maybe none of those. Whatever it is, though, some sort of strange calm has descended upon you. 

It’s one soul. Just one. Like Six had said before. What was one against all the souls you’ll save?

It astonishes you, how easily you find it to nod, and mouth a “yes.” Yes, you’ll stay with her. Yes, you’ll let her take someone’s soul. Yes, you forgive her. 

A tiny smile appears at the corner of Six’s lips, then is gone. Back to business. She skitters out from under the bed; instinctively, you follow, although you recognize you aren’t really needed at the moment. She latches onto the bedsheets, and begins to climb. 

Your head feels fuzzy; your body oddly numb. 

She’s going to kill a kid and you’re letting it happen. Now that it’s decided, you expect it to summon additional guilt. You expect to be crippled by the horror of what you’re doing. Strangely, you aren’t. It’s just a simple fact. A choice made out of practicality and need. It’s not that you don’t care. You just accepting what must be done. That’s what Six does. Makes hard decisions, for the purpose of greater good. 

Before you know it, you’re both perched on the bed. There’s a small child nestled in the center, with tiny hands and a little body swaddled tightly amongst leather straps and restraints, with her braided hair draped over the pillow. Unlike some of the others, this girl doesn’t have wooden limbs. She’s all herself, at least for now: no doubt that she wouldn't be for long in the Hospital.

If anything, that bolsters your decision. Getting eaten is a better fate. 

Six steps nearer. It’s sort of strange, watching her approach prey while she isn’t crippled with hunger. Obviously, she is hungry, and obviously, this is necessary, but it’s the first time that Six has voluntarily eaten in your presence without being on the very verge of snapping from starvation. She’s startlingly calm and level-headed. 

Oddly, you feel awkward. Unsure what to do with your limbs. It occurs to you that you didn’t really need to follow Six, and you don’t really need to watch this. That maybe you _shouldn’t_ watch this. So you don’t know what it is that holds you in place, while Six kneels beside the girl, and tugs down the sheets to reveal her pale throat. Your heart pounds in your ears, but you can’t quite look away. The whole thing is bizarrely ritualistic. The word _sacrificial _drifts across your thoughts. 

Six bows low, and her raincoat covers the scene, but she spends enough time with her head lowered that you think she’s almost… savoring the potential. Treasuring the prospect of a good meal. It makes you feel weird in your stomach to think about that, but it’s not necessarily a bad weird.Six doesn’t get to savor her meals much. It doesn’t seem harmful to let her do this.

You step slightly closer. The girl is still completely asleep, entirely unaware of what’s going on around her. Whatever the doctor did was thorough. Will it be enough to keep her asleep, though? In the Market, the caged boy had screamed and screamed, but here, that can’t be allowed. Noises here invite the doctor; the doctor invites death, or worse. 

Just as you’re worrying about this, Six bites down. You don’t see it yourself, not with the view obscured. What you do see is Six tense, a predator latching onto prey, and the girl’s small body spasm in agony. Her cerulean blue eyes flare open - your question is answered: she’s awake. And she wrenches her jaws open. Noises will get you killed. That’s what flashes through your mind. So your reaction is instinctive, thoughtless: your palms crush against her mouth, pinning her head down and stifling the scream. It takes more strength than you ever would have imagined to hold her still and quiet, while her body bucks under the restraints and she thrashes her head side to side. Adrenaline floods your veins, reinforcing your strength and shortening your breath. Dying things fight harder, you learn, but it’s her or you at this point, and you’re not going to let her compromise your or Six’s safety. The ferocity with which you feel that is incredible, overwhelming. Her or you. Kill or be killed.

The raw realness of it, the intensity, makes something surge in your chest: something powerfully feral, something undeniably primal. Your eyes gravitate to the charcoal shadows Six had marked on your hand, hypnotized by the way they twist and move with your clenched fingers. In some way, they serve as the eye of the storm for you. They are what your gaze fixates on, while your sight, hearing, and touch absorbs a whole maelstrom of details around them.

There’s the suction of the girl trying to breathe against your palms. There’s her eyes, blood-shot and petrified, silently howling at you in abysmal horror - _why why why are you doing this stop stop please _

Then there’s Six, inches away from you. Ravenously, eagerly eating, like she couldn't even dream of anything better than this. Her pleasure is a morbid marvel to you, while your mind shudders from the thick smell of blood. The girls’ jugular is gashed open, and deep deep red has splashed up to her chin and stained down her front. It’s soaking into the white sheets and spreading. Squelching meat is pulled out in long strings, caught between Six’s teeth, licked into her mouth with gleeful slurps. Every detail is another shockwave through your body, and there’s so many of them that, entirely unintentionally, you let out a huff of something close to laughter.

It’s easier to take a life than to save one, and you and Six have the power to choose. Your brain plays a chant over and over; it’s wordless, more of a feeling than anything, but it screams _yes right good. _There’s nothing else you should be doing right now, nothing but this. 

Suddenly it’s much easier to keep your grip on the girl. Maybe in part because of your refreshed strength, maybe in part because of her weakening. You’re practically panting, although you don’t think it’s from the exertion. At this point, Six’s eating slows. Instead, shadows wrench from the girl’s body into Six’s. Although they do not have flesh or bone or sinew, the way they’re ripped from the girl is inherently brutal. Violent. And it sends that giddy feeling leaping in your chest again; another nervous laugh huffs through your teeth. It’s good. It’s dizzying. It’s overwhelming. 

The girl isn’t moving anymore, but for a time, you keep your hands clasped to her face, as if the message is slow to travel up to you brain. Six rocks back onto her heels, blood staining her mouth. Her expression is pure unadulterated bliss, as she takes a shuddering inhale and licks her lips. Some reciprocal excitement rises at the sight, but the high is wearing off, and in the aftermath, your confused mind scrambles to pull itself back together. 

The girl is dead. 

That’s the first coherent thought that thrums through your body, scooping out whatever energy had filled you and leaving it with cold hollowness. 

She’s dead. 

Your fingers pull away from her limp body, while you take a stumbling step backwards. 

Right. Of course she would be. That’s a stupid thing to note. That was the whole point. You blink, and shake your head like it’ll clear your thoughts. You enjoyed it. You think. Was that enjoying it? It was… sort of unpleasant. But sort of pleasant. Both. Neither. Both. 

You raise your arm, to find blood dotted across your sleeve. Blood itself isn’t unfamiliar to you, though. In the sort of world you were raised, it was common enough. So it shouldn't be unusual to see. And it isn’t, not really. Six has got more on her than you. A lot more. 

You lower your arm, feeling something like you did at the start. Awkward. Confused, maybe. 

Six doesn’t have those kinds of hesitations. She takes to licking her fingers, pleased as a cat, as her shadow raise from her skin and furl around her like some morbid sort of hug. She’s happy; invariably that makes you feel better. She’s got her shadows back. This is all good.

Plus, she’s become a lot more comfortable with demonstrating her pleasure about eating in your presence. Feeling comfortable enough to be herself. She trusts you. 

She also doesn’t look at you like you’re a monster, or like you’re weird, or like you’re any different, for having just helped in murdering this girl. 

It’s just. Normal. 

Things are normal still. Between you two. And otherwise. 

Six isn’t different than before. Neither are you, probably. 

A nervous smile flits at one corner of your lips. It’s fine. Everything’s fine still. It was okay, to maybe sort of enjoy it and maybe sort of not. Six would understand, if you conveyed it, not that you intend to. It simply doesn’t need to be lingered on. She would accept it though, and accept you.

And now, with her sated and in possession of her shadows, you have better chances than before, of making it through alive.

This was necessary. To get to the Signal Tower. To save people. 

Yeah.

Everything’s fine.


	18. Factory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got too long so I chopped it in half. Focus, Mono and Six, please. 
> 
> Also sorry Emily, Mono doesn't fall off the bed in this. That part got cut. I'm disappointed too, lmao.

Stained with blood, Six rises to her feet. She radiates confidence, brims with quiet ferocity. Back are her shadows and the energy that comes with them. In another circumstance, she’d probably like to leap and bounce around in her excitement. Instead, she takes a deep breath and collects herself, and the shadows sink into her skin. For the first time after the ordeal, she meets your gaze. No guilt, no judgment, no overthinking or overanalyzing. Just simply, _all right. _She did what she had to do; you did what you had to do. However you feel about it, it’s okay. 

You aren’t drenched in self-disgust and loathing. Few people in this world would be, frankly. You’re mostly just numb. You should have known how easy it is, for time to keep marching on after you helped to deliberately end someone’s life. You’ve seen countless other lives ended before, and for each one, time indifferently ticked on. Maybe at first you’d lost sleep over it, but that was when you were very little, before it became background noise. Just because a life ends, doesn’t mean all the lives around it have to be intensely impacted. Mostly, that isn’t the case. So it’s not weird at all, that you aren’t very bothered by this instance, now that it’s all said and done. 

As you’re processing that, Six glances towards the shut door. Right. She’s being objective. Thinking about the dangers that lay ahead: the unknown machinations of the Factory; the doctor; beyond that, the Signal Tower, the black tower, the source for all the televisions. All of it so colossally big and beyond a normal child’s consideration. All of it risky. Dangerous. 

… Needless. An unwelcome thought creeps in, a thought that has not occurred to you since the very first time Six conveyed her goal to take down the Signal Tower.

Whispering, you utter it lowly before you can retract it, “what… what if we didn’t…”

Six glances at you, tilting her head to the side. The reek of blood is heady and warm. Maybe you’re just light-headed, or confused: you definitely feel both of those things. In one fell swoop, though, you let it out, “What if we didn’t go to the Tower?”

Her brow furrows like she can’t understand. You sweat, feeling put on the spot, unable to describe what led you to this conclusion. The Tower has been motivation from the very start. It’s what you agreed to. It’s why you’ve risked your lives traversing the entire city. It’s why you’re in the Factory to begin with. It’s the entire _point_. 

When you first agreed, though, you were lost, alone, and scared, unable to conjure any other solution, and unable to truly grasp the reality of doing what you were promising. Six by contrast was sure, purposeful, and brave, filled with confidence that such a thing was possible, so you found it easy to follow her. As time passed, you’d become more enamored with the idea of changing the world. Likewise, you’d clung to the concept that yes, your mother could be saved. So if anything, you were especially determined to see Six to the very end. 

Now, though, you know your mom can’t be saved. You’ve accepted that she’s been gone for a long, long time, even before you ran away. As for saving the other kids and changing the world… well, if you still really want to do that, then you can probably help in smaller ways. Releasing them from cages sometimes. Stuff like that. Stuff on a smaller scale than the Tower. It doesn’t seem as important, all the sudden, to tackle a task so immense for the sake of so many people you’ll probably never meet. 

“What if…” you continue falteringly, “we just… went off? On our own?”

Six has gone very still. Some residue of blood stains her face, which is distracting in a sort of morbid way. You glance down to look away, except then you’re looking at the cooling corpse of another child. Your eyes skitter to the side, staring at the headboard, as you utter, “We don’t have to take down the Tower. We could just… survive. Away from the city. Together.”

Tensely, you dare to peer at Six. Her lips are pressed in a hard line. 

“We could do it,” you whisper. That you’re becoming certain of. With Six’s powers, and your own survival instincts… you might even thrive, better than the other runaways could. “If we left now-“

Six steps over the girl’s body. You cringe when her foot lands in a pool of blood, but Six doesn’t flinch. She crosses the bed, leaving red footprints in her path, and then swings over the side, descending down the sheets the same way you both climbed up. Confused, you scramble after her. Does this mean she agrees with your sentiment? Is she ready to leave the Factory, and forget all this?

When you reach the floor, Six is kneeling on the hardwood under the bed where there’s lots of sawdust built up. “Six,” you whisper, bewildered. 

She presses a finger to the floor. In the sawdust she draws the Signal Tower, just like she had when you first met. Then she draws her raincoated figure on top. She looks up, and her gaze is flat and harsh. Your heart sinks. The meaning is clear. _She_ is going to make it to the Tower. Are _you_? 

It stings that she’d ever question your loyalty like that. You kneel beside her and hastily draw yourself in the sawdust on top of the Tower, complete with a cartoonishly large paper bag. Yes. Of course you’re coming. You’re not going to abandon her, no matter what she has her heart set on. If she’s going, you’re going. That’s final.

Relief spreads across Six’s face, evidencing that although her expression was closed off and harsh before, she really was worried you weren’t going to come. While you find that touching, you’re not quite done.

“Why does it mean so much to you?” You murmur. See, it doesn’t make sense anymore. Originally, you took her actions as heroism. After seeing Six kill twice without remorse or care, you struggle to reconcile her blasé attitude with her fervid desire to take down the Tower. Sure, maybe she simply takes her hunger as a necessity and her killing has no larger impact on her overall wish to help other kids. That’s how you initially interpreted things. But… you don’t know. Now that you've played a more active role in her (your mind substitutes _killing_ with _eating_), you’re having some trouble understanding how such a contradiction can exist. Maybe it makes perfect sense to her. It doesn’t to you anymore. 

How can you stifle a victim’s screams until their death - how can you partly _like_ it - and yet still feel the same about saving others? How are you supposed to want to risk your life and limb, for the sake of people that, in another circumstance, you might just as easily deem to be a food source? How are you supposed to view other kids: as victims to save, or as food? How can a person possibly see them as both?

Six is silent. Her regard is steady and calm; it betrays nothing. She doesn’t conjure shadows to create an answer, doesn’t draw in the sawdust. The silence yawns wide and deep, yet no answer is forthcoming.

“You'll just be hungry after the Tower, anyway,” You whisper hoarsely. You don’t mean it to come across as _accusing_, more of a matter-of-fact thing, that you’re supposed to do some big good deed and then invariably, you’ll have to help her find food. Even so, Six’s expression only becomes more guarded. She takes a terse step back; you follow.

“When the Tower’s down, are you gonna stop eating kids, or - or is this gonna be -“ you wave your hand vaguely. Is it going to be her life. Your life. All this time, you haven’t been thinking about what comes _after._ Maybe you naively figured that, after the Signal Tower, she’d just go back to eating regular dead meat, and the problem would never crop up. Now, you’re not so sure. You’re not even sure if that’s the solution you _want_, because, demented as it is, you… you sort of like the shadows. You like her energy. You like….

You shut down on that thought fast. “I don’t know if I can do both.” Saving and killing. “But you won’t stop, will you?” You don’t even know where your thoughts are going; they’re all over the place. Belatedly, you realize that you've backed Six almost against the wall, and that she’s looking at you with a wary, disturbing sort of look, _I will hurt you to get you away from me if I have to._

It burns to see that directed at you. “Sorry,” you utter, stumbling back. You have no idea what’s gotten into you. Maybe you’re just - tired, or something. Being irrational. All mixed up inside. You feel horrible but can’t really explain why. 

Thankfully, Six relaxes, and the danger in her eyes evaporates into sympathy. 

While you’re torn up and confused, she treads closer. To your own shock, she then wraps her arms around your shoulders and hugs you tight. It doesn’t explain anything you’re lost about, and doesn’t magically fix things. It’s not supposed to, though. That’s something you like about Six. She generally doesn’t try to force you to feel better, to cheer you up, or put you in a position where you feel like you have to change your emotions. She just… accepts. And stays. And waits with you. 

You envelop her smaller frame in your arms, and squeeze back. Sort of just let yourself feel crappy. 

The thought crosses your mind, that you’re only delaying things further, that you’re being inconvenient again, but you forcefully push the thought away, and grasp the back of Six’s coat tightly, until it feels like the two of you will be squished into one person. You’re allowed to take time, when needed. 

Anyway… Six will be able to go for days without eating now. Even if she does get hungry, there’s lots of people here. 

She tucks her head under your chin. That would be more endearing, if she didn’t have a very large hood that gets all smushed and crinkled uncomfortably, but it makes you snort a laugh that she manages it anyway. Then it’s quiet, for a bit. You don’t cry, although you sort of feel like it. Just not enough to actually do it. Or maybe too tired to. It is towards the end of the day, and you didn’t sleep well last night… 

Six is pretty warm, and once your tumultuous thoughts have settled a bit, you yawn, thinking more longingly of sleep.

That’s when something wet and warm presses against your throat. You jump, and half-yelp. What the-? Then she does it again. It’s Six’s tongue, you realize. She’s _licking_ you. A really weird feeling skates along your skin, very much waking you up. Is she _tasting _you? To eat? 

… Do you taste good?

No no that’s a weirder thought, don’t think that one-

Her tongue lathes up the length of your throat, and flicks over the underside of your jaw. An awkward giggle catches in your chest, while her actions partly dislodge your paper bag, making your vision pretty limited. What is she doing!? She literally just had her teeth buried in the gore of someone else’s throat - literally, their throat, which is exactly where she’s licking you and that’s enough to send your pulse hammering. “Six?” It comes out as a squeak more than anything else. She’s coating your throat in saliva, which is incredibly gross actually, and it dries kind of cold.

Nope, nope you are _very_ awake now, so if that was her objective, she got it-

“O-okay-“ you try to pry off her arms, only for something else to tighten around your back and legs. Oh. _Oh. _Her arms aren’t the only things she’s clinging to you with. The shadows, too, are wound around you. 

“_Six-“_ it’s a little sterner this time, a little more alarmed, your hands grabbing and tugging at her - finally, she releases you, and you stumble back. _Geez_. Your stomach flips, feeling all kinds of funny inside. The hell was _that_ about? You wipe your skin off, as best you can, and re-adjust your paper bag. Six is wearing the most devilish of smiles, so maybe it was another of her mischievous acts. She’s impossible. 

Still… at least you feel a bit better. Not any more grounded, of course, but… better. 

You lean in closer and whisper, “you are _really_ weird.”

She smiles and shrugs like, _yeah, what are you going to do about it? _

Yep. Impossible. Sighing, “still bent on the Signal Tower?”

She nods. 

All right.

All right. Fine. 

You made it this far. So maybe you don’t have everything worked out. Maybe you’re confused, and don’t know Six’s motives. Regardless, she’s dead-set on going to the Tower, so you suppose somebody’s gotta watch out for her. You just hope you don’t have another weird emotional breakdown in the middle of things, because you aren’t very fond of what just happened. Well. You don’t mind what Six did. But before that. What Six did was okay. Something flips in your stomach again thinking about it. 

Okay, focus. You poke her shoulder, and whisper, “just letting you know: I get to decide the next perilous quest, and I won’t tell you why we’re doing it.”

Six stifles a giggle. There’s a disorienting sensation that you shouldn't be cracking jokes, or even just behaving normally, on the heels of having murdered someone. You feel like you should be crippled with guilt, like you should be behaving drastically different, maybe drowning under the weight of what you'd done. Your reasoning holds its ground, though. It was necessary. It was best for Six. It was best for the girl, too, who otherwise would be tortured and destroyed piece by piece in the Factory. 

So a smile comes to your face, too. “_Also_,” you add, equally hushed, “as soon as we come across a bathroom, I’m throwing you in the tub.”

Six makes an affronted noise.

You shrug and point at her stained coat. 

She just sticks out her tongue and put her hands on her hips. Her expression is so defiant, that at first you think she’s going to derail the entire mission. But no - she shakes her head, sighs like _oh what will I do with you _(as if YOU’RE the problem, pfft), then turns her attention back to the door. 

In hindsight, you might want to get out of here extra speedily, now that you've left behind a pretty grisly indication that you’re here. All the patients might be in some sort of hypnotized deep sleep, but the second a doctor or nurse enters this room… yeah, it’ll be pretty obvious there’s an intruder. That’s not something you can blame on rats. You snort trying to imagine passing the blame to _rats_ of all things, and Six looks at you like _excuse me, can we focus? _

She has no room to talk. As a show of your Laser Sharp Focus, you march to the door and begin unravelling your metal wire with the intention of tossing it at the door handle.

Before you’ve even detangled the thing, Six’s shadows have wrapped around the handle instead and tugged it right open. 

Oh. Yeah. That makes things much easier. Hastily you wind the wire back up, sticking your tongue out at Six. She only sticks hers out in return. That’s all she’s got? Smirking, you flash your middle finger at Six. 

She tilts her head to the side. _Huh?_

Has she never seen that gesture before? Feeling mighty proud that you know something she doesn’t, you go ahead and put up a second middle finger and tauntingly dance both. 

She can’t restrain her offended squeal, because though she may not know the gesture, she now understands some gist of what it means. Stomping her foot down, she too whips out her middle fingers, and sticks out her tongue at the same time. 

Rude. Immature. Absolutely ridiculous; you'd never stoop to this. You’re in the middle of wondering if you can stick up just your middle toe, too, when a shadow falls across the both of you. 

You vamoose like squirrels, darting under the bed again, all play abandoned. 

Framed in the doorway is a skeletal towering figure. She wears a dirty white apron, and you don’t think any part of her is flesh and bone anymore. Her eyes are black marbles set into a wooden skull. Her head rotates with a whirring clicking noise, as she steps into the threshold of the room, casting her gaze from one side of the room to the other. You don’t think she saw you. It seems she’s come to investigate why the door was open. It was dumb to open it and just _stand there_ like idiots.

At least you were tiny enough compared to her height that you passed without notice while fleeing.

“A nurse?” You mouth, hazarding a guess. 

Six shrugs a shoulder, refusing to tear her gaze from the doorway. 

It would be so, so unbelievably easy to see the gore and horror on one of the beds, especially from the nurse’s height. Her gaze sweeps back and forth, back and forth, but it never stops on the girl’s carcass. Whatever wrong or out of place thing she’s looking for, she doesn’t find it. A dead body and heaps of blood don’t set off any alarms in her re-programmed brain. All normal here. 

Satisfied, the nurse shuts the door behind her with a _snick_, and you and Six are once again alone with the sleeping patients. 

You let out a breath you were holding. Safe. Barely. 


	19. Factory

The nurse didn’t even notice the dead girl on the bed, or all the blood. Her eyes cast right over it, but never registered anything strange. All that mattered was the girl was in bed, as children should be at this hour. Didn’t matter if she was dead or not. Nothing strange here. You suppose that’s how an adult’s mind works. Especially one whose wires have all been crossed and rearranged. In this kind of place, you’re scared to consider what might happen to you and Six, should you be caught.

This time when you leave the room, you’re more careful. 

First, you peer out through the gap under the door to make sure nobody’s outside of it. Then you throw a thumbs-up to Six, who again uses her powers to open the door just a teeny sliver. The two of you skirt around the edge, and into the light of the hallway. Behind you the door snicks shut, and Six’s shadows retreat under her coat. You’re out of the ward, now, and into the hall. Here, the vast ceiling rears high above your heads, and winds in impossibly crooked ways. In contrast, the corridor itself is unnaturally narrow and long, lined on either side with countless doors exactly like the one you’ve left. None are marked in any identifiable way. They are identical, and for all intents and purposes, seem to go on forever. Presumably, within each one is another ward, another set of beds, another collection of humans strapped down for experimentation and alteration. The sheer paralyzing enormity of what you’re facing brings exhaustion back strong enough to make you want to collapse. 

You have no idea where you’re supposed to go to get _out._

Something you can’t do, though, is just hang around cluelessly. At any second, one of the dozens of doors could open, and someone could step out. The doctor, or one of his nurses. Luckily, there’s an excessive number of end tables shoddily thrown around down the length of the hall, with no regard to visual appeal. Upon these are perched gnarled lamps with bases like twisted trees. There’s also metal trays haphazardly littered with medical supplies - gauze, bandages, wood glue, used syringes - and piles of medical equipment with purposes you’d rather not guess about. These can at least afford some protection, so you tug Six beneath the nearest table while the two of you contemplate your next move. 

Well, one direction is very much the same as the other: both left and right seem to extend to perpetuity, marked by nothing but doors. Already you’re tired even thinking about walking for that long in either direction. Or maybe the exhaustion is a culmination of everything that’s happened today, not to mention the late hour, or the fact you barely got any sleep last night. You slip fingers under your paper bag and rub your eyes. Gotta stay awake, though. Gotta stay alert. 

So, which way to go? You glance at Six for verification, only for her to frown, equally torn. Well, it doesn’t matter much. You’re lost either way, so you pick right at random (maybe your decision making skills aren’t up to part right now, but really, both ways are the same as far as you can tell).

As you creep down the hallway, Six following behind, your eyes gravitate to the various portraits and paintings which are framed clumsily and without organization on the wall. Some of these must be caricatures of the patients, as the figures depicted within are distorted amalgamations of humans and wooden puppets. You’re not naive enough to believe the grotesque agony depicted on each individual’s face is anything less than the raw reality the artist personally witnessed. Alongside these pictures are crayon drawings that give off a very different aura, and yet still have a disturbing light to them. These were clearly done by children, but there’s no sense of whimsy or fun in them. The expressions of the characters within them are either flat and emotionless, or twisted in pain and dismay. There’s a rigidity to the drawings that speaks to order, structure, law. Instead of a myriad of colors, each drawing uses only harsh black lines. As you progress down the hall, anything recognizable and organic is gradually removed from these drawings, until the only thing left is meaningless straight black lines on white paper. Then just the canvas. 

This is weird. Why would they even put stuff like that up? As an example? A threat? Or is it like a trophy, something to strive towards? It’s tiring just to think about.

Aside from the patients and the child’s drawings, there’s paintings of places, too. Places you guess to be located within the Factory itself, although you don’t know why anyone bothered to paint them. There’s wards not unlike the one you left. There’s rooms painfully sterile and bleach-white, painted from angles that don’t seem to make much sense. There’s close-ups of various items, like the edge of a cabinet, a portion of a wheelchair, a glaring overhead light, someone’s wooden hand. It’s creepy. 

The biggest painting comes further down the hall: a large depiction of a man with his eyes hidden behind his glasses. His smile is too wide, like someone has taken string and artificially pulled it up, with too many wrinkles around his lips, but his brow above the glasses is clinically flat and stern. The painting is enormous, and his sweeping white coat almost reaches the floor, as if he were actually standing right there beside you. The doctor. His image makes your skin crawl. 

Six gently tugs at your sleeve to draw you away; you’re grateful to put that picture behind you.

In fact, you'd rather not look at any of them anymore. 

Your eyes fix on the carpet, which has the same repeating pattern over and over and over again. All this is creating a very convincing illusion that you’re not actually making it anywhere, just walking in circles. Your head bobs; your eyelids get heavier.

_Creeaaaak - _

Six reaches to snatch your hand the same time you reach for hers: your wrists fumble stupidly before your fingers lock, and simultaneously, the two of you flee under another table and flatten yourselves to the wall. 

A door down the hallway has been opened. Out step two nurses, joints squeaking. So so easily they could look under the table and find you. But they don’t. Together the two of them walk past, fake wooden feet tucked into plain white shoes. One of the shoes is stained with something dark like oil. Six and you don’t even dare to breathe. They pass. 

Further down the hallway, they open another door. Behind it, you glimpse only darkness, then the nurses disappear within and the sound of their feet descending steps fades further and further away. They leave the door cracked. 

You glance sharply at Six. There’s stairs. Not far, either. Up on this floor, it seemed very much like the two of you were walking in circles, getting nowhere. But if you could get on another floor, maybe it would be different. 

Six nods.

Only trouble is, you’ll be following the nurses. With that in mind, you wait, counting up numbers in your head, though you have no idea what you’re counting to. You get to two-hundred and twenty three before Six darts out from under the table. 

Together you shimmy around the door, and then freeze. 

This is a staircase all right. A narrow one, winding far into darkness, with nothing but an abyss around it. It has no hand rails, and the steps are made for feet much bigger than yours.

Better to be careful. You sit on the top step, dangle your feet over the edge, and then slide until you’re on the second step. This is the easiest, safest, and - 

And Six hops right past you. 

Careless of how one misstep could send her plummeting into a void, she leaps down one stair at a time, while you sit stricken with anxiety. 

“Six!” You hiss, but it’s such a muted noise, and Six has by this point bounced her way out of whispering range. You mutter a few choice words under your breath. All right. Just like crossing the beds before you got into the Factory. Just takes a little bravery. You stand up. With only a void framed on either side of you, you immediately feel wobbly and off-balance. Oh, why does Six have to be so reckless sometimes? Gritting your teeth, you dare to make a leap down one step, and land neatly on your feet, throwing out your arms for good measure. So far, so good. Except Six is making much better time, fearlessly descending deeper into the pit, and her yellow raincoat is disappearing into the darkness. You’re not going to be so thoroughly beaten. Beaten, yes, maybe: you can accept that. But not so pathetically and thoroughly. (Anyway, who knows what’s at the bottom: you'd rather Six not face it alone).

Holding your breath, you leap down the next step, and the next, each time pausing a second to steady yourself.

Bunny hopping like this, you and Six wind down seemingly endlessly, under you're absolutely immersed in blackness. Nothing above, nothing below. The air here is colder, but strangely heavier, like something in the darkness is watching you. 

At last, the end is in sight: another door. 

Six’s shadows bloom out: you find it oddly comforting that they stand out starkly black even against the void. Like they’re stronger. Like they could conquer it, if they chose. She unlocks the door. Pushes it open just a tiny crack. The two of you peer around the edge.

It’s an examination room. Blisteringly bright. Bleach white walls, cabinets, and drawers. Everything reeks too strongly of antiseptic. A sterile metal chair is the centerpiece of the place, and on it is strapped a kid that’s got to be only a little older than you. His wrists and ankles are secured by metal restraints, not that he’s fighting - his gaze is unfocused, and far, far away, his mouth slightly slack. He’s awake, but not _there._ Not really. 

On the countertop, one marble-eyed nurse is sorting what you think are pills. Meanwhile, two other nurses fuss over the zoned-out boy. You’re not sure exactly what they’re doing, but it involves screwdrivers and scalpels so you’d rather not find out. The whole scene fills you with an indescribable kind of dread. Every ounce of you wants to go crawling right back up the stairs. But there’s nowhere to _go_ up there. The hallways just marched on forever. 

Six nudges your side slightly, and points. Across the room, there’s an air vent. If you could make it in there, you'd be better hidden, and have some freedom to navigate the Factory undisturbed.

Getting there, though… that means getting past all three nurses.  Your eyes drift down from the vent to a rolling utility cart just below it, with half its drawers opened, spilling out wires and medical equipment. Close to it are the cabinets, which extend along the length of the room. You have an idea. You take Six’s hand and squeeze it tightly. _Trust me._

One of the nurses has grabbed a drill, and is leaning close to the confined boy’s skull, while a second monitors closely, scalpel at hand. The second the drill begins to whirr, you pull Six behind you into the room. Posture held low, you both creep alongside the wall, footsteps disguised by the screeching sound of the drill, until both of you are tucked safely under the cabinets. Perfect. Just don’t think about what’s happening to that kid in the middle of the room, or the blood that’s dripping to the floor. Except you think a little about it.   
  
Being around Six has made you more consciously aware of souls as a real concept, and you can’t help wondering if the kid has a soul or not. If it would save him, for Six to take his soul. Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do. Even if he did have a soul that Six could take, something Six could relieve from the agony it was being subjected to, the nurses would then notice you, and, well, sacrificing your own lives would be incredibly pointless. 

Together you cross the length of the room, ducked under the cabinets, where you’re careful to step around countless disgusting items which had fallen and been kicked out of sight. There’s used needles, orange syringe caps, pieces of broken glass, scrunched up tape, lots of dust, dotted blood, and in one spot, a gross greenish stain. After your last experience cutting up your feet, you’re really really not keen on doing so again, especially not when this place seems like a cesspool of potential disease and infection. So it takes careful maneuvering to both avoid these objects and remain under the cabinet’s lip. Finally, you reach the far edge of the room. The utility cart is a mere foot or two away.   
  
Daringly, you poke your head out from under the cabinet to assess the danger. Two nurses are still crowded around the boy. There’s more blood spilling down and staining the floor. You’re grateful that the back of the chair blocks your view of what’s actually happening to him. Perhaps most disturbing is that the boy is so far gone that even awake, he hasn’t once cried out under this treatment. The third nurse is more of a problem. She’s closer, still sorting pills. And even as you watch, she turns your way. 

Instantly, you duck back under the cabinet, heart hammering. Did she see you? You don’t think so, but….

Her mechanical footsteps clack over the floor. She’s coming closer. Six is squeezing your hand hard enough to nearly break something but you hardly notice as you both squash yourselves as far away from the cabinet edge as possible. The nurse’s feet come into view. She stops. How well can the nurses hear? 

She begins to rifle through the utility cart. Seconds drag on. Then, finding what she came for, she walks away. You let out a heavy exhale. Okay. Go go go. Out you tiptoe, always an eye turned towards the nurses. While gore and death might not bother a nurse, a child out of their bed at night would surely lead them to attack.

Luckily, they’re very immersed in their task. You and Six reach the utility cart safely. Except for the part where the first handle is too high to reach. _Crap._

Waving at Six, you link your fingers to form a stepping stool. With this extra leverage, her hands close around the handle, and she pulls herself up onto the first drawer. That’s all fine and good, except for the rattle of her weight settling in the unstable drawer. 

You freeze, throw a look back. The nurses are still occupied. Good. Heart hammering, you reach up and clasp Six’s hand. She pulls you into the drawer. Even as delicate and quiet as you try to be, some jostling of equipment is inevitable. This time, it’s louder. 

This time, it doesn’t go without notice. 

You don’t see it so much as you hear and feel it - the hush of danger, the sharp electric shock skating under your skin. Then one of the nurse’s unleashes a mechanical shriek.

All attempts at quiet are gone - now, now you need to _hurry._ Up each drawer you and Six scramble, tools falling, metal clattering.A glass beaker is launched; only at the last second do Six’s shadows flare out to protect you, and the glass shatters against the smoke, some flecks speckling over your clothes and pelting your paper bag. You shove her higher and scramble after her, wires and junk spilling over on either side. 

The nurses rush in, the shadows of their fingers splaying over you. Six flies into the air vent; you dive after her. Something snags you back. The carving knife! The tip snagged one slat of the vent. Frantically you adjust it, and then zoom inside the vent a mere moment before the nurse’s hand closes on you.

Together you scramble deeper, far enough where the nurses can’t reach, and then slump against each other, panting. You’re in the air vents now. Safe. More or less. Jeez, that knife had almost killed you. In a way that knives usually didn’t. You can’t help snorting a short laugh at that. It better come in handy at some point, after scaring the crap out of you. The back of your head thumps against the side of the air vent as you exhale. That burst of adrenaline had taken any lingering energy out of you. You feel like you could nod off to sleep at any second. 

Six shifting around in the air shaft rouses you a bit, and you open your eyes to find that Six is sitting closer to the vent now, and she’s got both middle fingers up in the air, directed towards the examination room.

You press your fingers to your lips to stifle a laugh. She learned that one fast.

Well. She can have her fun. You’re just glad you m-

A harsh scraping noise stings your ears. The nurse’s shadows play through the slats in the vent, as Six begins to back away, round-eyed. The scraping noise repeats, and you understand. The nurses are prying off the vent. They haven’t given up. And they know you’re in the vents now. _Crap._ You and Six reach for each other and awkwardly snag each other’s clothing before realizing you’re both doing it and it’s pointless. Then you’re stumbling down the vents together. 


	20. Factory

The deeper you wind into the air vents, the darker it gets, until you can’t see an inch in front of your nose. You’re far from the nurses’ reach, now, and as safe as you’ll ever be. Of course, the nurses now _know_ two children are in the vents. They might at some point go looking, and reach in spindly arms. Sure an adult might not be able to fit, but… an adult’s hand certainly could, and you’re not so naive as to believe that it needs to be attached to a body. With fingers like spidery legs, a hand might crawl through the ducts, looking for children to snatch. 

_Click -_

You jump. Eerie orangish shadows, cast from the lighter in her hands, illuminate Six’s face. The way they play against her expression is frightening, with her eyes dark and a half-smile at her lips. However, the danger (at least for you) is nothing more than a visual illusion. She’s got that invisible spark, that _energy_ she gets from consuming a soul. If it’s anything like the last time, she won’t be tired or hungry for several days. Maybe it’s messed up, but you feel a flicker of jealousy. It would be nice to not have to sleep.

Six continues to lead, while you follow. Her footsteps are utterly soundless. Your own make a soft tapping noise against the metal, no matter how hard you try to match her. At least the sound is muted: you doubt anyone in the Factory proper would be able to catch it. Maybe if you weren’t so exhausted you'd be better about moving silently, but every step takes momentous effort.

Over and over, your mind plays the image of the doctor kneeling over patients. Putting them to sleep with nothing more than a touch and a whisper. You dread to imagine what other powers he might have. Maybe he can see children, even through the limits of walls and metal. Maybe he is watching you two, even now. Tracking you. And, when the inclination strikes him, he’ll send something to fetch you. 

As soon as you think it, wooden arachnid fingers scramble out of the darkness of the vent, nails tap-tapping. In a mere moment, they’re upon you. The palm fills your entire vision; as your lips part to scream, their skeletal digits seize your body -

Pain explodes up your knee caps. You jerk your head up in time to catch yourself with your hands, but your knees had really hit the floor hard. Your gaze swings back and forth, chest heaving. There’s nothing. No hand. No wooden fingers. Just Six, haloed in a soft glow, her head tilted inquisitively to the side.

Your breath evens out. “Sorry.” _Ow_, your knees. You force yourself back to your feet, stifling the urge to do the opposite and lay down. “I-I think I fell asleep.”

Six’s confusion gives way to concern. She treads back to you, bringing the orb of light with her, and touches your hand gently. _Are you okay?_

“I’m all right.” Not too hurt or anything. Just tired. And that’s not something you're willing to indulge in right now. “We should keep moving.” 

Her fingers encircle your wrist and hold you in place. It’s a gentle but firm refusal_._

“I can’t sleep here,” you insist quietly. She shakes her head, funnily enough as if she’s agreeing with your statement. Correct, you can’t sleep here. But she won’t let you move on, either. She’s contemplative. It’s as if she’s come up with a third option, but hasn’t decided to execute it. 

“What?” You whisper into the silence.

She doesn’t answer. Not with a change in expression, not with gestures, not with images formed by her shadows. Instead, her eyes dart to the side as she weighs her mystery solution. Considers it. 

“_C’mon_,” you mutter tiredly, a little aggravated. You don’t have time for -

The hand she was holding the lighter in opens. The lighter doesn’t fall. It hovers in place, shrouded in a darkness that is stronger than its light. You swallow hard. Your eyes follow the silvery object as it floats to the side. Out of the way. Out of the way of _what?_

“Um…” When your eyes return to Six, her gaze is steady. She’s come to a decision. It unnerves you that you were not consulted on the decision. “What is it?” You whisper. 

She smiles. _Trust me._

You don’t like this. “Six, what’s wrong…? What’s happening?” 

Six tugs down her coat sleeve, exposing her thin, pale forearm.

“Uh-”

Without hesitation, her teeth pierce straight into her own wrist.

“_Six!_“ 

When she pulls away, her wrist is stained red. 

“Oh, God-“

She’s calm, like she hasn’t just bit open her own flesh, like she hadn’t just done something completely insane. She holds her wrist out to you in some twisted offering, _here, have this_, but you just gape in horror.

“What the- Six, why did you- geez, what are you thinking!?” You seize her hand to get a better look at the wound. Several sharp punctures from each individual tooth are welling with deep red blood. “B-bandages.” That’s what you need. Something to patch this up. You begin to dig around in your pockets.

Six yanks her arm away so fast that you look up. “We have to tend to that!” 

She, apparently, disagrees. She points vehemently at you, then makes a show of lifting her wrist to her lips. Nausea rises in your throat as she flattens her tongue to the wound and licks the blood into her mouth. Oh, that’s worse. You don’t know why it bothers you so much, because it’s not like you haven’t seen worse from her, but you really, really don’t like what she’s doing. Maybe because her Hunger makes some sense to you: it’s a need, a requirement. This? This you don’t understand. What is she trying to say? What is she trying to get you to do? _Why is she so calm?_

It doesn’t matter. You don’t have bandages, so maybe you can cut pieces of your coat up…

Six snarls.

“_What_?” What can she possibly want you to do, if not to heal the wound she went and caused herself?

For a second time, she drags her tongue along the blood (the sight makes you shudder). And again, holds out her wrist, frustration lining her face. _Take it._

Take… take…

She really can’t mean her own blood. She really _can’t_ want you to - to - 

Six growls.

“I’m not going to - to lick your blood, Six, that’s weird-“ The red liquid drips to the floor, and all you can think about is how bad this is for her. She stalks closer, waving her wrist close to your face, but you back up, expression contorted in disgust, “_NO! _I’m not doing that!” Maybe she thinks it’ll help your exhaustion somehow. Hell, maybe she’s right. Maybe there’s something about her blood, something with it being infused with shadow. That doesn’t mean you want to try. You don’t want to be -

Well, you don’t want it. You shove Six away, scowling. “I’ll be fine, okay?”

Six glares. 

“Now let me take care of that.”

At first, she huffs, and refuses. When it becomes clear you are absolutely not going to do what she wants, she relents with an eye roll. Angrily, you cut up pieces of your undershirt using the carving knife (which is much too large to make you entirely comfortable with this task), and then wind the strips of fabric around her wrist. You'd rather disinfect the wound somehow, vaguely remembering from an early childhood scuffle that human bites are supposed to be particularly dangerous. No matter what you'd like though, you simply don’t have any disinfectant. This’ll have to do. 

“Don’t hurt yourself again,” you mutter as you make the last knot. 

Her mood softens at your caring, but you’re less amused. You didn’t like that stunt. Even if she was trying to help. Because you’re fine, or at least will be after rest. Six snatches the lighter back, and you both continue the way you were originally going.

Your knees ache now from your fall, but at least their twinge of pain at every step, and your irritation, help keep you more alert. Now that you’re paying more attention, you notice that every several feet in the air ducts, vents offer glimpses into the rooms you’re passing. At first, you hope that something within might indicate whether you’re going in circles or not. But the things you witness in those rooms… they’re horrible. 

Some rooms are for medical procedures: nurses tending to patients secured by straps. Some are docile; others have their screams muffled by gags and gauze. Tools designed to rip people apart litter every surface. In one room, a still conscious man has a needle lowered into his eye. It isn’t the only needle placed.

Next, you pass individual patient rooms, which are more like prison cells than anything. Starkly contrasting the rest of the Factory, each unit is plain and desolate, devoid of any objects except for a small mattress, a pail, and in some cases, a table nailed to the floor. In one of these is a man burdened by unwieldy long arms, and he totters around his room emitting distressed noises, his actions clumsy as if he’s unaccustomed to a body that is not his own. He isn’t the only patient you come across with additions made to their body that make them grotesque and ill-proportioned. All of them are in various states of horror and self-loathing.

Rarely do you care about the struggles of adults. Here, you can’t help it. People don’t go to the Factory of their own volition. They _must_ come when the doctor calls, because it isn’t up to patients to decide whether they are sick or not. They aren’t qualified. That’s how it’s told, anyway.

Your resentment only grows, until you reach the doctor’s office, him within it, and instead of fear, you feel primarily _hate_. He sits behind a too-clean desk, signing papers. His grin is just as wide and awful as it was in the painting, and it’s ill-fitting for his face. You’re not inclined to hatred, not normally. Fear, yes. And you do fear the doctor. But you’re tired of only fearing, only running. It’s him who’s orchestrating what happens here. You can blame the televisions, you can blame the corruption, you can blame something or the other. At the end of the day, though, the doctor is the one here, perpetuating these evils.

You linger by the vent. Six hovers at your side. Whispering so softly that the words are barely formed by your lips, you utter, “can you kill him? Take his soul?”

Six stares for a long time at the doctor. She raises and lowers a shoulder. So she’s not sure, either. 

“Can’t tell if they have a soul or not without trying to take it?” You guess. 

She nods. 

“He doesn’t have one,” you decide viciously. You wish he did, so Six would have something of his to rip apart. But he doesn’t. You’re sure of it.

Adjusting his glasses, the doctor looks directly up towards you and Six. Sucking in a breath, both of you quickly retreat. For some time after, you repeatedly throw looks behind your back. Just to be sure nothing’s following.

It seems like there’s an endless number of rooms. You’re almost certain you don’t see any one twice though, so you hope it’s a testament to the size of the Factory rather than an indication you’re going in circles. Your feet trudge. Your eyelids droop. You barely notice the rooms you pass now, with their crafting tools, conveyer belts, and piles upon piles of severed limbs. You’re so immersed in the drowsiness that is descending further and further into your skull, that you nearly run right into Six when she stops abruptly.

“Why-“ you begin to voice. 

Six points. 

Oh. 

The air duct ends. 

Well, it doesn’t end exactly. Instead of continuing forward, though, it hits a bend and then goes vertically upwards. There’s no way that you and Six could climb up that. This is where your trip in the vents is over.

“There was a grate not too far back,” you murmur, yawning. The prospect of encountering enemies again worries and wearies you, but getting out of the vents is the only choice now. At least you made it this far. Six nods, and the two of backtrack to the nearest grate in the air ducts. Peering through, your shock is almost - _almost_ \- great enough to shed your sleepiness. Because this room is full of _kids_. Some of them you even recognize: people from your school, people from grades younger than you. They’re all lined up in perfect order. Ready to get their masks. At the front, a nurse is smiling, and sorting them. Arranging them to meet the doctor. It’s all normal. Routine. Your stomach twists. Given a couple more months, this would have been you. 

“Next grate,” you mutter; Six nods. 

The next room is devoid of living things. Maybe it’s for storage, a place forgotten and abandoned, where extra limbs and body parts lie, because there’s several crates stacked up (some directly under the vent), as well as messy piles of hands, arms, legs. Even a few torsos propped against the far wall. There’s shelves, too, lined with jar after jar of grotesquely colored liquids and within them, formaldehyde bloated specimens. Eyes and hands, mostly. Some shapes you don’t recognize. Lots of organs. Everything is covered in thick dust like it hasn’t been touched in ages.

This place is creepy. It unnerves you, like there’s something breathing in the silence and stillness.Something waiting. 

Maybe… Maybe you want to try another room. Except most of them had people in them. Weren’t safe. Your eyes close briefly. Tired of running. Tired of - 

A clatter of metal snaps you back to attention in time to see Six crawling through the grate like she’s going to bodily flop to the crates below.

Hissing, you wrap your arms around her waist and drag her back. “What are you _doing_? You’ll break your legs-”

Six sticks out her lower lip poutily, but yeah, you’re not gonna risk your or her bones dropping all that way, no thank you. Her method of bursting in without planning _sometimes_ works, and sometimes doesn’t. In this case, you have a better method. 

First, you unwind your carving knife from the wire around your torso, and launch it from the vent: it impales itself into the wooden crate below. Next you circle the wire itself around one bar of the grate, and twist the two sides together, forming one big loop. Perfect. Perfect enough, at least. You feed all the wire through the vent until it’s dangling far below into the room, and until the two sides you twisted together are at the very bottom of this loop. Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to undo the wire from the other side, and you'd have to leave something so potentially valuable after only one (well, two) uses. 

Six grins brightly at you. 

Yeah, you don’t have to just… _flop_ out of the vent and hope for the best. Geez.

The only trouble is that if one person tries to descend the wire, it will just send them plummeting down anyway, due to it being looped around the vent bar rather than actually tied to anything. Under your instruction, Six grabs one side of the wire while you grab the other. Your weight is greater than hers, meaning you can’t simultaneously descend.

“Just stay here,” you instruct, and inch your way down the wire. 

Once you reach the bottom, you sit and hold the wire (tightly wound around your hands, which are partly protected by your sleeves), while Six descends. She grins when she joins you, like, _huh, that worked!_ You untwine the wire and pull it down from the vent. Around your torso it goes, followed by the carving knife that you secure on your back once more. Six throws a thumbs-up. She’s extra bubbly, which might be her asking for forgiveness for upsetting you, or might simply be a side-effect of having recently eaten. You’re too annoyed to really wonder which.

“You’ll concuss yourself jumping out of vents.”

She shrugs and smiles, though the brightness in her eyes has dimmed. All right, you’re not a cold stone. You feel bad about that. 

“Sorry,” you murmur. Not so much sorry for the concussing remark, because that was true. But sorry for your general standoffishness. You slip a hand under your paper bag and rub your eyes. “I’m just… tired.”

Down the crates you two descend, until your bare feet touch a cold concrete floor.

There’s no telling how much longer you’ll have to go before you’re out of the Factory… And after that, there’s the Signal Tower…

This dead room might be your best chance to sleep for a long time. If you could just take a small nap right here, five minutes… Your head leans against the crate as you yawn widely. Probably wouldn’t have to sleep long-

You jerk awake when Six touches your hand. 

Her expression is midway between concern and exasperation. 

“No - no blood-“ you find the energy to say. “I just… I need to sleep.”

She gazes at you silently. Looks around the room. There are all kinds of eerie shadows. Eyes stare down at you from jars. Limbs everywhere. But none are moving. And no adults are around. She looks back, and nods. _I’ll keep guard._

You trust her. In reality, though, you’re too tired for it to matter. You’re lucky you manage to pull off your paper bag before you’re slumped on the floor, and unconscious to the world. 


	21. Factory

It feels like you’ve only _just_ closed your eyes before Six is frantically shaking you awake. 

“_Stop_-“ you groan. Didn’t she understand that you need more than a single _minute_ of sleep-?

Glass clinks: a noise neither you nor Six made. It instantly signals to you that there’s something _else _here. You understand, then, why Six woke you, in the way prey understands, and all is instantly forgiven. There isn’t time for petty quarrels about something so trivial.

Quietly, you reach to Six; she pulls you to your feet. Her shadows are out, coiled defensively close. In turn, you draw your carving knife. Might have to be ready for a fight. Might have to be ready for anything. In unspoken agreement, the two of you shuffle closer, back to back. She watches one half of the room; you watch the other. Both alert. Both waiting for disaster.

Within a nearby jar, a shapeless pulpy mass twitches. Somewhere else, glass clinks again. However, no creature or monster comes crawling from behind the shelves, mouth slavering, eyes spelling your doom. Nothing at all comes. The seconds drag on, and nothing happens.

Nothing happens. 

Against every wall the severed limbs cast weird shadows. In every jar bobs some grotesque specimen. They do nothing to soothe your unease. The silence yawns on, and the hairs on your arms prickle. Your heart pounds so loudly in your ears that any other subtle noises are drowned out. 

Nothing… happens.

You want to ask Six what she might have seen or heard prior to waking you, but you don’t dare speak. 

Nothing 

Happens.

Maybe it isn’t anything after all… Maybe-

Then glass shatters. A scream sticks in your throat and you whip your head left and right. Infuriatingly, _nothing._ What’s in here with you? Why can’t you _see_ it -

Another glass shatters. Both you and Six flinch and bump against each other awkwardly. You don’t like this. You don’t like this at all. Your knuckles are white on the knife handle. You want to look everywhere at once.

It’s in this frantic search that you realize something disturbing. Many of the jars contain eyeballs - that little detail you'd noticed before, but there’s something different now. All of the eyes, every one, now has its gaze fixed imminently upon you. They weren’t like that when you entered the room. They weren’t like that at all. They’re staring. You’re about to grab Six’s attention when chaos erupts. 

Jar after jar tilt off the countless shelves and shatter on the floor below, each with a sound like a gunshot, each releasing sprays of glass shards and small tides of formaldehyde and fluids. Specimens splat wetly out of their confines: organs, eyes, sometimes sopping bundles of teeth and hair. As soon as they land, they begin to _move_. All across the room, swollen flesh twitches, jerks, rises. 

There isn’t one single monster, like you first feared, but a collection. Your back strikes the crate behind you as you recoil. Six throws her gaze up at the vent, considering escape, but it’s much too high up now. In her distraction, a grotesque hand stretches bloated fingers towards her bare ankle. Your response is instinctive: putting all your weight behind it, you pierce the carving knife straight through its maggot-white flesh. Rotten brown guts ooze from the wound. The smell emitting from its ruptured flesh is putrid. Gagging, you wrench the knife out, and the hand doesn’t move anymore.

Six throws you a look of gratitude. Except that creature isn’t the only one. There’s _hundreds._ Six recovers quickly from her surprise, and assumes an offensive position. Her shadows skate across the floor, hunting. And they find what they hunt. The finesse with which they skewer and rip to pieces their targets amazes you, not that you’re given much time to dwell on it when more and more of those _things_ are encroaching. Well, you’re not gonna be chopped meat yourself. Especially not when Six exhausting her stores of energy leads to a hunger she can’t control - a hunger that leaves her incredibly vulnerable. The sooner you can bring this to an end, the better. So you launch into the fight yourself, slashing your knife across any abomination that gets too near.

Problem is, these things aren’t the real enemy. They’re just screwed up _pieces_ of people. And Six might be content using all her power to one by one mutilate them all, but you know she should be more careful with the limited energy she’s got. As for you, you’d rather not fight if you can avoid it.

Only there’s no way you can reach the vent again. There’s gotta be a different way out. While Six battles on one front, you examine your surroundings. The only escape you can find is a door across the room. You’ll have to make a run for it. 

“_Six_!” You yank her sleeve. Time to move. _Now._ She doesn’t question your judgment for a second, and follows hot on your heels as you leap over a pile of dead flesh. The silver blade flashes, fending off attackers. Any that your knife fails to deter, Six’s shadows make quick work of. The path you leave is strewn with oozing chemical-bloated body parts. Some you step on accidentally, and they squelch disgustingly underfoot. Together you slam into the door, and burst into a place dim and empty, crammed with old cracked machinery and defunct equipment. Her shadows crash the door closed behind you, and you slump against it, exhaling heavily.

Yeah, okay. So you don’t _just_ have to worry about the nurses, or the doctor. In case those alone weren’t bad enough, you _also_ have to worry about any limbs that aren’t attached to anybody. Great.

“Think they can make it under the door?” You mutter to Six; she returns a look that says she wouldn’t be surprised no matter what weird contortions they might pull off. Lovely. 

“Let’s keep moving.” 

As you navigate through the old machinery, half-wondering what all this was even used for, you absent-mindedly comb your fingers through your hair, only to realize there’s no bag on your head. You took it off to sleep, then ran without thinking about it. A swear slips through your lips, one that has Six smirking with her new knowledge.

“You’re not allowed to spell that out. Ever.” You tell her sharply. 

She sticks out her tongue and rolls her eyes. 

“_Ever_.”

Prancing ahead of you, she throws out her arms and in midair pitch letters form, ~ F U K ~

“_SIX_!”

She cackles wildly. There’s no way you’ll tell her she misspelled the word: it’s way funnier with her not knowing. You shake your head, smiling faintly. 

Too bad about the paper bag, though. Maybe it’s dumb, but you felt some sentimentality towards it, perhaps because it was something Six had given you. Not to mention it came seriously in handy with the televisions. From here, you’ll be headed (more or less) straight to the Signal Tower, and not having the bag sets you on edge. Still, there’s nothing to be done about it now. You’re not willing to go back into that nightmare.

Six, meanwhile, entertains herself by plastering the word _fuk_ on random equipment and in midair.

“You should use your shadows less,” you scold, brushing aside a _fuk_. “Never know when…” _You’ll be able to eat again_, was what you were going to say. Except that implies she’ll be eating another kid, and that you’re not going to stop it. You might even help, like last time. (Might even _want_ to). Guilt twists in your gut. Has it really gotten that easy for you to consider something like that? 

Unaware of your sobering mood, Six nods, and crosses her heart. A promise to be more careful about using up her energy, although you somewhat doubt she’ll follow it. Not because she’ll deliberately break the promise, but because she’s so used to being reckless with her powers. She never thinks ahead to the eventual hunger that will come. It’s bizarre to you. In some ways, she’s so calculated and reserved. In others, she’s careless and wild. Has she ever regretted her kills? Not for their impact on her friends, but for the impact on the people she’s murdering?

Agile and lithe, she slips and dodges and ducks around the labyrinthine collection of items, her own mind not at all burdened by the questions you have. More slowly you follow, the size of your carving knife as well as your greater height making the going more difficult. At some point, there’s so much junk piled everywhere that the floor disappears, and the two of you are crawling over furniture and machines and boxes and twisted metal bed frames - seemingly everything under the sun, precariously stacked in such a way that there’s often only tiny tunnels and passages to creep through. Six takes to the challenge like a pro, maneuvering left and right and up and down, while you get flustered just trying to keep up with her. 

Within the piles of junk are dead televisions - the sight of these sparks some hope back in your chest. Are you getting closer to the Signal Tower? You had expected to sense the Tower, like you often could sense it when you were younger. You expected its influence to be heavy and dizzying. So it’s surprising at this point, so close to the Tower, that you have yet to experience its hypnotic effects. You doubt there’s any protective influence of the Factory itself, meaning the change might just be… from, well, you. Maybe they don’t affect you anymore? Is that something that’s possible?

You crawl over many of the dead TVs, musing at the change. “Do you think we’re close?” you whisper-call to Six. She doesn’t reply, but you can still hear her clattering about, so at least she hasn’t gotten too far ahead… 

Would be nice if you could see a window or something, though: some indication you’re going in the right direction. 

“_Yoof_!” There’s a thud, a yelp: your heart skips fearing that Six might have been crushed under something.

“Six!” Tearing after her, you end up bodily falling out of the junk pile and into a brightly lit room, nearly landing directly on top of her. Six snorts, and shoves you off, like _c’mon, I got this!_

“None of that sass,” you snark, shoving her right back. “You can’t go scaring me l-”

Six’s eyes drift to the side. She’s noticed something behind you. Whipping around and scrambling to your feet, you come face to face with -

With a group of children. Clean, well dressed. Each with a pair of shoes and a washed face, all surprised to have you two suddenly drop out of nowhere. In contrast, you and Six are shoeless, dirty, spattered with blood and other liquids you’d rather not guess about. Although you’re just as shocked as them. These kids are old enough or brainwashed enough to be receiving their masks. That’s probably what they’re here for. Milling about, waiting to be called into the next room, waiting to be irrevocably changed. They won’t like runaways. Won’t like disobedient, rebellious children that have no place being loose in the Factory. 

This is bad. 

Six waves. It’s more social obliviousness than strategy, but you have to get past the kids to reach the next door, anyway. So you smile nervously. Maybe friendliness _will_ work. “Um. Hi?”

Six glances at you; only then does she pick up on your nervousness. Her own brow furrows. Her fingers tighten around yours. _Danger?_

“You’re _runaways_,” someone whispers, at once frightened and awed. 

“Yes, um-” Obviously. 

“_Traitors_,” someone else says, colder. 

“No, no, no- um-“ 

You raise up your free hand as a demonstration of good-will. “We - we just want to get by. Th-that’s all. Like we were never here.”

You inch closer to their crowd, towing Six behind you. She’s gotten tense. Feeding off your fear. And maybe remembering Olly; remembering that kids can’t always be trusted, especially not in the Factory. The faster you get out of here, the better. Only thing is, you don’t want to startle anybody. Don’t want to cause trouble.

The nearest children part for you, their expressions a mingling of disgust, like you’re filthy and if they touch you, they might get contaminated; and reverie, like you’re something they can’t fathom, a character of fairy tales. It’s a weird mix of flattering and embarrassing, tied in with all the fear they’ll betray you. Someone even reaches out and touches your coat, like petting a particularly gross animal at the zoo, which really doesn’t make you feel too great. You keep smiling, hoping that it comes across as friendly and not strained like it really is. Six’s fingers are practically crushing yours and it’s getting frankly painful.

“Where are you going?” someone small asks, a little mousey-haired girl that sticks her head inquisitively in your path. She looks much too small to be getting a mask. You halt. How dangerous is it to answer truthfully?

“We just want to escape,” you decide on.

“Why?” The girl side-steps right into your path. You nearly bite your lip, while Six’s nails dig into your palm, and a low growl rises in her throat. 

“Um.” Words. Excuses. Explanations. 

“The doctor can fix you,” she chirps. “If you’ve got something wrong in the head.”

“Nnh,” you reply noncommittally, attempting to wriggle around the mousey-haired girl. 

She slides into your way again, shaking her head. “We can’t let you go. Right?” She surveys the other children watching, as if to get their affirmation. Most are pale, hesitant. Undecided. 

“There’s only two of them…” one kid dares to peep. “They’re not doing any harm…”

“_No_.” The girl’s eyes blaze. “That’s what they _want_ you to believe.” 

“Really, we’ll just be on our way,” you try.

“We don’t _have_ to tell on them-“ says another. 

The girl clenches her fists. “See?!” She turns to the child who had spoken up. “They’re already _infecting_ you. You were picked to get your mask. Best of the best. And you’re still susceptible to their _disease_!” The girl turns back to you. “I know all about that sickness,” she says. “My brother was a runaway. And he tried to get me to join him. But it’s a horrible life. And you all end up dead.”

“Rather be dead than soulless,” you mutter. A flash of your mother’s memory passes through your mind, accompanied with a twist of anguish. 

It wasn’t the right thing to say. The girl crosses her arms. “We’re _not_ letting you past. It’s for your own good.”

All right. You open your mouth to attempt to sway her one final time before just making a run for it. 

Not a single word has a chance to escape.

You don’t touch her. You don’t lay a single finger on her. But her head snaps to the side with one sharp, awful, _crack. _Her eyes stare blankly. Dead, instantly. She’s just beginning to fall when unseen hooks violently tear black shadows from her body. Overhead the lights flicker and shudder. 

Her body hits the ground with a dull, heavy thud. The shadows coil around Six like a favored pet. 

You… you stare. At the girl’s crumpled body. Processing. Slowly. So Six doesn’t need to touch someone to take their soul. Not when she has enough power. But why-

The other kids surge away like a tide. Screams erupt. The fluorescent lights explode, raining down shards of glass. All of the children’s screams are cut short in their throats. Their small bodies contort like puppets with deranged puppet masters. Bones crunch and snap; necks twist, mouths open in silent agony. Freezing air buffers around you, suctioned towards Six. Inhaled. Consumed. 

One by one the bodies drop. 

Then it’s done. Silence. It took mere _seconds_, and now all the children in the room are dead. All except you and Six. Your breath is stolen. Your limbs are trembling. It all happened so insanely fast, so fast you could barely process it. And yet the bodies are there. Piled up. Just like how the adults stack them at the Market. 

Your skin crawls. You’re overly aware of Six inches from your side, breathing heavily - not in exertion, but in excitement. You’re aware of her shivering in the pleasure of her meal. You’ve seen her with teeth in another’s flesh, up close and primal. Seen her eat. It’s something you've rationalized to pieces. Maybe on some level it was easier to accept because it had been so animalistic, so necessary, so natural even in its unnaturalness. This… this is different. She didn’t fight with tooth or nail. There was no need. She simply found them inconvenient, and ended their lives with little thought or effort. Many of the kids hadn't even been opposing them. It was cold. Distant. They never had a _chance_ to fight. 

You swallow hard.

Six turns to you and smiles. Bright, vivid. _See? That was faster._

So easily she can decide an entire roomful of people aren’t worth keeping alive. Yet for you, she’s risked her own life and safety several times. She _trusts_ you. Kills for your sake. 

And… you can see why, in hindsight. You’ve accepted her where others wouldn’t. You made justifications. Allowances. Forgave her. Because sure, if she didn’t kill them, they might have cried out for the nurses, or the doctor. If she didn’t kill the girl earlier, that girl would end up worse off. If she didn’t kill the caged kid in the Market, then Six wouldn’t have survived long enough to take down the Signal Tower, thus helping so many more. On some level, Six wasn’t wrong. Every questionable action of hers made some sense, and _did_ further her greater goal. And you've agreed. Gone along with it. So of course she’s… of course she trusts you.

Her loyalty has never scared you before, but now it does. Deeply.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you utter lowly. 

Her smile falters. Maybe she thought you'd be fine with it, because you helped her kill last time. You don’t even know what you’re okay with. You don’t know what’s okay at all anymore. Your fingers run through your hair. A shaky breath leaves you.

With Six, you’re doing far more for other kids than you’ve ever done before. With Six, you’ve also deliberately hurt far more kids than you ever did before. Kill a few, save thousands. That has come to make some sense to you. But… where’s the limit? What happens if you decide she’s crossed it? If she murdered all these kids merely for getting in her way, then what would she do to you if you ever opposed her? Slowly, you recall that moment when you first entered the Factory, when you began to question her motives and she brimmed with the threatening implication she’d kill you to get where she wanted. Much as she seems to cherish you. 

Six makes a soft noise. She links her fingers with yours. Every instinct tells you to flinch, but you don’t. You’re wooden, like the patients, like you’re not entirely in control of your body. Don’t know how to react. Scared to be scared. Her hand is soft and small within yours. She doesn’t look dangerous, not inherently. She looks innocent, more innocent than she should. Her concern is genuine. Her care for you equally so. You’re just… not prepared to deal with it right now. Not after what she just did. Maybe it’s unfair to her, that you led her to believe you’d be comfortable with something like this. You don’t know. You keep gazing at the dozens of lifeless eyes and crumpled bodies and it’s suddenly really hard to see how this is different than the kind of imagery you’ve been seeing your entire life. Like you ran away from something only to run right back to it. Like runaways never really _get_ away. 

Only she's not brainwashed. She's not dragged into doing things she hates because of someone else's control. She simply... enjoys this.

Is the Signal Tower even going to make any difference? 

Unaware of your thoughts, Six’s smile tentatively returns, taut with worry. Pleading, almost. Maybe she’s looking for words. For approval. Prying for a positive reaction you’re not up to giving.

Tightly, you utter, “let’s keep moving.” There, you said something. Because you don’t want to be in this room anymore. Anyway, it’s not safe. You’re glad to detangle your hand and slip out, but not for a moment do you forget what you’re leaving on the floor in there. Not for a moment do you feel comfortable with Six mournfully trailing you. 

So many things you’ve given passes to. Maybe too many things. And she had grown to believe you’re comfortable with them. Which is partly your own fault. You didn’t realize it would continue to escalate. 

You rub your face. Is this as bad as things get? Or is she still sort of holding back? Doesn’t she _ever_ feel guilty? 

This can’t continue. That you decide. Because you want there to be a limit. _Need_ there to be. Need some morality you can cling to. She can’t keep shocking you and sending you into tailspins like this. Not if you’re going to stay friends - and you do want to stay friends. She’s all you’ve got left. She’s the only reason you’re still moving.

You halt in place, decisive. Six has more or less led this whole time, and you've let her make the hard decisions. That needs to change, at least when it comes down to others’ lives and deaths. Even if she disagrees. Even if she'll turn on you. 

You turn around, “Six, I-“

And then stop.

Six’s isn’t behind you. 

You blink. Look around. “S-Six?”

Nothing.

Six is gone.


	22. Factory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immense gratitude to [savouren](https://savouren.tumblr.com/), who has been a massive help with the last chapter and this one. Without her ideas, brainstorming, and editing, I was about ready to give up. I'm also like 90% sure I stole a line of Mono's dialogue from you(?)
> 
> Also great thanks to the reviewers! I never expected this story to get any traction, so it's been incredibly encouraging to see people enjoying and interacting with it. The next chapter is very likely to be the last, although I may write two endings. I appreciate you guys for sticking around.

You don’t think for a single second that maybe you'd be better off leaving Six. That wherever she is, whatever she’s gotten into, you ought to stay away and stay out. Doesn’t cross your mind. All you think is that she’s gone, and you have to find her. You hunt through the room, to no avail. Then retrace your steps. Heart pounding, but too afraid to yell for her. 

A few rooms down, it’s _her_ yell you hear. Except she isn’t calling for you. It’s a yell twined with a snarl, the sound of a carnivorous animal trapped and screeching to escape. It’s not a good sound. Although it cuts off quickly, there’s crashing. Another deeper voice. That voice is the same one you heard crooning patients to sleep: it’s the doctor’s. Your blood runs cold. How did he find Six? Or how did Six find him? Either way, you don’t hesitate. Towards the sounds you streak, profile cautiously low, because getting caught yourself won’t help you save Six. 

You slip around a cracked doorframe, and -

There’s the doctor, a tower in a white coat. 

Six, clutched in his grasp, is suspended many feet above the ground, thrashing and growling. Her shadows are out, but none of them are reaching the doctor. Something holds them back. An invisible force that meets them midway each time, and deflects their attack. 

The doctor’s smiling. You understand, sluggishly. He has his own powers, aside from his whispering hypnotism. He has something that can rival Six: that can subdue her. 

Luckily, he hasn’t noticed you yet. Your blood roars in your ears. If you don’t act… he might kill her, or take her soul. Twist her into something she isn’t. 

Your carving knife slides from its place on your back. Slinking around the edges of the room, you hear the doctor murmuring to Six, but the words themselves you don’t catch. Only the tone, low and sadistic. Six struggles and whimpers. His worst effect on Six might not be the physical restraint of her powers, but rather a more sinister attack on her mind. You need to do something. The knife trembles in your grasp. Nervous shudders run along your back. Facing the doctor, exposing yourself… he could destroy you, with much less effort than Six. It’s strange how that doesn’t stop you. 

Six’s scream ratchets up an octave. It hides the sound of your feet as you bolt recklessly towards the doctor. There’s a spot, just above his sock, and below the bottom of his pant leg. A target. 

Before you even know what you’re doing, you’ve plunged the carving knife straight into the doctor’s Achilles tendon. 

Far far above you he roars like a speared beast, and you know you’re playing with fire, but you grit your teeth and use all your strength to drive the knife as deep into his flesh as you can. To hurt him bad. Bad you can. The meaty substance of his leg squelches horribly; blood blooms over his sock. The knife handle is ripped from your grasp when he kicks you and sends you sprawling halfway across the room.

Disoriented, your head raises in time to witness all the doctor’s tools are arrayed around him, hung suspended in midair by thin arms of blackness. Like a twisted kind of spider web. Every tool is pointing directly at him from all angles. 

Your breath catches. Six. Your attack gave her the time she needed. 

The doctor’s mouth wrenches open: he begins to yell. Then every tool, in perfect sync, shoots into his body. Knives bury deep enough that even their handles jam into his flesh. One sinks straight into his eye and from there, into his skull. A dozen needles puncture his skin. Scalpels pierce between his bones and stick there.

The doctor sways in place, looking like some horrific pincushion, and you still blink in dizzy disbelief that all that had turned around so fast. How swiftly Six (because of you) took ahold of the situation. 

_Whumph, _his huge body collapses to the floor. Dust sprays. You throw an arm in front of your face against the onslaught, until it settles. The doctor lays on the floor, like a great rock. Motionless and very dead. A thick scent clogs the air, some cloying mixture between machine oil and blood, while greasy-red substance oozes from under his immense weight. It itches your throat and turns your stomach. But where’s Six? She didn’t - she wasn’t caught _under_ him, was she-? A fall like that would crush her. Terrified, you lunge forward, only to glimpse a tiny yellow figure rising up on the other side of his body, coughing. Six! 

Relief surging through you, you scramble around the doctor (you’re not so brave as to climb over his corpse), and nearly knock Six over with the force of your hug. She stiffens. 

“We did it! I’m so glad you’re okay! Why did you run off? Or did he catch you?”

Despite her verbal limitations, Six absolutely could answer the questions. She doesn’t though. She stands stiffly, leaning away slightly. Wary. 

Why, though? She has no reason to be wary of you, of all people. Especially not with her… abilities. 

Slowly, you release you. “Talk to me,” you press. “Six, I was so worried… you can’t just run off like that.”

She takes a step back. As you scour your mind for what might be the source of her reluctance, you find the answer. Right before she disappeared, you had brought up your displeasure with her consuming the lives of so many children. In fact, with her arms wrapped around herself, her gaze sliding away, you’re reminded distinctly of when you were in the forest, the very first time you addressed her appetite. As soon as you started asking hard questions, Six withdrew from you, and began to consider leaving. Same thing earlier in the Factory. You questioned her, and her demeanor suggested that she’d hurt you to get you to shut up. She’s incredibly honest and upfront about her actual actions, but whenever you question whether or not she _should_ be doing a particular behavior, she immediately braces herself for abandonment.

It makes sense, now. She assumed you didn’t want her around. She left before _you_ could leave. 

You’re so happy just to see her alive that for a moment, you _almost_ assuage her fears. You almost say, _I’m sorry, look, I won’t get upset again-_

You even open your mouth, ready to say something like that. 

Then you stop yourself. 

You think about the bodies that had littered the floor. Not the doctor’s, mountainous and once evil. But small. Children’s bodies. You think about how little she hesitated. How, when she gets hungry, even you begin to feel unsafe. How this keeps happening. The cycle of her eating, you feeling horrible… it keeps getting worse and worse. 

Your stomach flip flops. Bringing that up… voicing your displeasure… she might just want to leave. But she might instead decide you’re more work than you’re worth. 

She scares you. 

Six moves to step away, evidently deciding by your silence that you’re done with her. It could have been that easy. Instead, you grab her wrist. Utter, “Stop.”

She narrows her eyes. 

She scares you but she’s your friend. “It’s about the kids you killed, isn’t it?” Not that, not exactly. “Or my - my reaction to that.”

Six says nothing. 

“I’m _right_, though,” you dare to continue. “What you did back there… that wasn’t…_good. _You didn’t _need_ to do that. You get that, right?”

She tucks her chin down stubbornly. 

“We could have just ran. Like we always do.”

Six bares her teeth. _Leave me alone._

You get it. Sort of. She’s probably had a lot of kids ditch her - frankly, you don’t blame them. So to some extent, she’s always been waiting for things to be too much for you. Yes, she’s attached, yes, she likes you, but she’s perpetually readying herself for the moment you draw the line. At which point, apparently, she would abandon or kill you first. 

That last one makes you nervous as hell, especially considering what she did. But you’re not done. 

“Look, I still want to travel with you, okay?” You snap. “Just because I’m upset with you doesn’t mean I - I want to leave, or stop being friends.”

Hope trickles in her frame as she lifts her head. 

“But this isn’t how friendships work. You can’t pull away every time I ask questions. And you can’t do whatever you want and expect me to be okay with it!”

She blinks slowly. 

“What you did back there -“ you cut off, grinding your teeth together. “I get needing to eat. Okay? I understand. But that… That was no better than the adults. That’s _scary,_ Six.”

She bristles, but you have no patience for her being upset. “Instead of just waiting until you do something awful enough for me to leave, why don’t you - _not_ do awful things?”

She growls. 

“_No_,” you snarl back, “You don’t get to just retreat and feel sorry for yourself because people keep ditching you. I _want_ to be your friend, Six. But that’s kind of a two-way street, okay? And when you just-“ you wave your hand weakly, “slaughter a dozen kids because you _feel_ like it - I deserve answers! I deserve to know what the hell is going on in your head!”

Something outside of the room clatters. Only then do you realize just how loud you've been speaking, and in a place so very unsafe. Instantly, Six tries to run away from the sound: you, however, haul her into a nearby cabinet with you.

For a time, you’re both dead quiet. Nothing enters the room.

Only after you’ve waited many minutes do the two of you slip out, Six’s head tilted down meekly. She knows you’re not done.

You whisper shortly. “You’ll wanna do something like that again, won’t you? Like hurting all those kids?”

She’s a terrible actor. That at least you can rely on. A faint smile flicks at her lips, her eyes already ravenous at the implication, even after having eaten more than you've ever seen her. She nods. Yes, she’ll want to eat. Yes, she’ll want to eat more than she needs. 

“Don’t you _want_ to do the right thing?” You ask, dismayed.

Again, she nods. Not with the accompanying excitement or light. Just a, _yeah._ She does want to do the right thing, but she doesn’t seem to _feel_ anything about doing so. She doesn’t have that sense of heroism you do, maybe, or any emotional idea that it’s the right thing to be doing.

That’s… scary. She loves killing, loves eating. But she fights to do good, for the sheer sake of it being the right thing to do. That… says something, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s more meaningful, that doing the right thing doesn’t move her in any way, but that she does it anyway, or at least tries, through sheer force of will. She isn’t doing a good enough job on her own, though. 

Clenching your fingers, you utter, “new rule. You need to to tell me whenever you’re hungry.” Six blanches. “And - _AND - _you’re not allowed to kill _anyone_ without asking first.” A pause then, “except maybe adults. The scary ones.” Which was just about all of them, really, but still.

Six huffs, and seethes. You don’t think anyone’s put any kind of restriction on her, and she clearly harbors animosity about the idea, but, “you can’t just run around wild and do whatever you want. Not when you’re playing with people’s lives like they’re nothing.”

She rolls her eyes.

“This isn’t a game. If you can’t promise me those things, then I’m _not_ going to the Signal Tower.”

All playfulness sweeps from her face, replaced by a bitter, dangerous look. You don’t think she’ll kill you, but if she does - well, you would have been dead without her anyway. She needs to hear this.

“I’m not being _mean_,” you grind out. “I’m trying to do something good, Six. And I want you to as well.”

It takes time. Her shoulders slunch in defeat. She clutches herself in a self-hug. Those actions alone might indicate her retreating back into her comfort zone, where she doesn’t listen to anyone else and does as she pleases. You know better, by the gentle bite of her teeth into her lip, by the way you could nearly see the gears turning in her head. She’s considering. Which is a hell of a lot further than you’ve gotten with her so far about this topic.

“So?” 

She nods. 

“You agree to tell me as soon as you’re hungry?”

Nod-nod. 

“And you won’t kill anyone until we _both_ decide it’s the right thing to do?”

Hesitation. Then nod-nod. 

You exhale heavily. “Pinky promise?”

Six smiles softly, shyly. Her pinkie links with yours. One solid shake, then you’re pulling away. Pact made. 

“Good.”

There’s still an itch in the back of your mind - an unpleasant sense that she hasn’t truly changed her mind about her own actions. Because most likely, she hasn’t. Still, that wasn’t the point of this whole spiel. Her mind is not something so easily changed, especially when she’s spent so much time building walls to keep out anyone else’s opinions or perceptions. The important thing is she listened. And agreed to change her actions first. It’s a start. 

You won’t forget what she did back there. Can’t forget it. Even now, you’re chilled by just how much twistedness you had allowed to become a normal part of your life. Likewise, you’re uneasy around Six in a way you hadn’t been before, but maybe should have been. 

You shake your head. “C’mon. Let’s see if we can’t find a way to the Tower.”


	23. Signal Tower

After seemingly endless wanderings, and a few encounters with nurses (quickly ripped apart by Six’s powers - something that both awes and unnerves you), the two of you find an exit - a skywalk connecting the Tower to the Factory.Climbing across that leads you into the Signal Tower.

What strikes you as strange is that nothing guards the Signal Tower from the Factory.Nothing stops you from entering. It’s weird, like all along, there was never any physical barrier. Like you could have entered whenever you wanted, and nobody would care. That couldn't be true, not with how important the Tower was. Wasn’t anyone concerned?

Evidently not. Six and you drop in through a window. 

Inside it’s artificially warm, almost as if alive, and it’s dim, cave-like. Part of you expected this place to have large, yawning ceilings that stretched to perpetuity, or enormous ballroom-like spaces. At least here on the first floor, that isn’t true at all. The ceiling is strangely low, perhaps only twice as tall as you. And the rooms seem tinier, too: crowded, even. Against every wall are stacked televisions, smaller than you’ve ever seen televisions be, but these are blank, cracked and empty. Dead. The last time you were around this many televisions was in the Market, when you had to climb a pile of them to find out where Six was caged. That seems eons away now, a lifetime ago. 

Your fingers brush over one television screen. There’s a buzzing in your ears, a loud low hum. Although these televisions are dead, you know there must be others within this place that are not. Unlike at the Market, or at any other point in your life, they do not sing to you. They do not burrow under your skin and nestle inside your ribs. They do not make you think, _what if I just stopped here? What if I gave up? _They don’t make you forget your motivations, your goals, or yourself.

If anything, they… seem pathetic. Weak. Their signal isn’t powerful enough to control you. Even though it has controlled - _does_ control - so many others. The absence of their influence in your mind now makes you realize it should have been there much earlier, too. Should have been there in the Factory, even. 

It’s… strange. How long have you been immune to their influence, like Six, without even noticing? Your entire life, you always assumed you’d be tempted by the televisions, no matter what. In the Market, you’d resolved to fight them, understanding they’d always want you back. 

But now? 

Now they don’t. 

You’ve conquered their call. Not that you entirely understand how or why. But it’s true. 

Six materializes at your side. She looks strangely at you when you get in these contemplative moods, and her expression is no different now. Much time as you spend trying to parse out what she’s thinking or feeling, maybe she does the same for you. 

“I thought I’d always be tempted by them,” you explain, voice hushed. “It’s weird. They don’t bother me at all.”

Six hums, and smiles. 

“Yeah. I guess it’s a good thing.”

Six raises her gaze up. Up to the ceiling. You suppose that’s where you have to go. Upwards. 

There’s only one door in this room. That door is webbed with countless cords, all coated in dust. Like nobody has come in or out for decades. The carving knife makes quick enough work of the cords, and then you and Six are slipping into the staircase. You snick the door shut behind, not needing Six’s shadows to reach the handle. The stairs are winding and steep, but the steps are ones your legs can manage. They’re small. Your size. 

There’s no lights. Nothing to guide your path, but there doesn’t need to be, as it’s all one staircase. One way. It doesn’t branch off into other rooms or other floors. Just up up up.

It occurs to you that you’re going to be seeing the person behind all the televisions. The person that took your mother’s soul. The person that took _everyone’s_ soul. Trepidation creeps into your heart, but Six gives you a reassuring smile. Throughout this entire trip, she’s never faltered. Never doubted. You return her smile. If she believes it can be done, then… you believe, too. 

That leaves the question of how you'll feel when you meet this person. The Controller. The Broadcaster.All this time, you’ve been focused on the Signal Tower itself, not any mind behind it. He was whispered about, before kids knew better, but you know nothing. Nobody knows anything. Nobody’s ever seen him. Maybe he’s especially tall. Ominous. Surely he has powers worse than the doctor. Powers that maybe even you and Six combined can’t conquer. 

You glance at her. She’s got a steely, quiet determination on her face. You have to trust she’ll know a way. So up the stairs you endlessly spiral, until you reach the very top. 

A door whose handle you can reach easily. You put your hand on it, but hesitate. Is this it? Are you suddenly, now, so close to the end? 

For some reason, you expected something within the Signal Tower to stop you from getting this far. A slew of enemies, something creepy like the nurses, something powerful like the doctor. Something that would test you one final time before you reach the end. It’s unnerves you that you've encountered nothing and nobody. That the Signal Tower for all intents and purposes seems deserted. And so dusty that it’s like nobody has occupied it for years.  Is this a trick? Is this really the end?

You glance at Six. She doesn’t seem to understand your confusion. If anything, she’s impatient. Her eyes are eager in a way that unnerves you. She angrily waves her hand, _go on, open the door._

The enemy has to be on the other side of the door. Things can’t be this easy, not after all of your struggles to merely reach the Tower. If you want to shut down the Tower forever, there has to be some final challenge… right? And whatever it is lies inside this room. 

“Six,” you whisper. 

She grits her teeth and reaches for the handle, but you grab her hand to stop the motion.

“What _is_ behind the door?” you ask softly. 

Six makes a faint noise of frustration, and finally looks at you. You release her hand so she can gesture, but every gesture is jerky. She draws the outline of a box in the air, and you interpret it to be a television, and then she makes a motion like smashing it. 

“Just a television?” That seems oddly simple. “What about the Broadcaster?”

She shrugs curtly and points at the door handle. You suppose it makes sense to be impatient. She’s wanted this from day one. And you’re finally here.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door.

The room is dim. Hazy and blue tinted. It smells of dust and age. The televisions in here are countless, each of them on, and buzzing, but displaying nothing but silent static. Slowly, you step in, and at first don’t think there’s anything else in here. Until something in the corner of your eyes shifts. Tensing, you whip your head to the side and see … someone. Someone sitting in a chair, silhouetted by a stack of screens from floor to ceiling. Someone who has half-turned to look at you. 

He must be centuries old. Grey hair merely wisps on a dry and bare scalp. Eyes so far sunken into his skull that they’re nearly gone, blue and slightly cross-eyed, cataract-ridden. It’s a marvel he can see anything at all. His large head sits upon a body so thin you can’t imagine how he’s alive. His hands are long and spidery, covered with white hairs and mottled patches. The wires from the televisions are punctured through the flesh of his forearms, and they nuzzle snugly in his veins, bulging grotesquely from his skin.

You stare. 

He says nothing. Simply blinks, and stares back.

Whatever you were expecting, this… this wasn’t it. 

_He_ is the Broadcaster? He is the man behind everything? It can’t be true, and yet you know it has to be. The door downstairs had been sealed in with cords. This man has been here a long, long time. The exhaustion in eyes speaks to a weary nature, beaten into submission. The Broadcaster couldn’t _be_ anyone else. But he isn’t like the doctor. He doesn’t look… _evil. _He’s just a man.

The Broadcaster sees you and Six directly, and yet makes no move to attack. If anything, there’s relief on his face. 

You don’t understand. 

This isn’t right.

_Makes no difference_, Six’s eyes say. He will die anyway. Licking her lips, she steps forward.

“_Wait_.” You snag her wrist. She could just as easily tear out of your grip and go on her way. Despite her agitation, she doesn’t. She waits for you to get whatever closure you’re seeking. Meanwhile, the Broadcaster’s sunken whitish eyes track you. 

“You’re behind all of it?” You whisper. Behind the televisions. Behind the sick machinations of this world. 

The old man’s lips crinkle like folding paper. His skin protests the effort, like he hasn’t smiled in years. His eyes don’t change, not quite getting the joke. “No.” He speaks like trees creaking in the wind. 

Confusion mixes with resentment in your chest. “But you’re controlling the televisions, you - you took my mother’s soul.”

He blinks slowly. “Most likely.”

You grit your teeth. “You’re a monster!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the oddest thing is, he says it like he means it. 

“An apology isn’t really good enough,” you bite out. His feeble appearance has washed away fear, leaving behind only anger and confusion.

“I know,” the Broadcaster replies sadly. It infuriates you that he looks so… so human. Melancholic. He should be sadistic like the doctor, or at the very least, cripplingly guilty.

“You’ve taken so many souls,” you plead as if to get him there. “You’ve ruined so many lives. Why? Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Though it doesn’t matter _who_ does it. Someone always will.”

Your rage only augments, although you hold Six back from attacking. “I don’t get what you’re saying. How can you _not know_ why you do something so evil?”

The Broadcaster touches one of the wires funneled into his skin with a dry overgrown fingernail. Musing, he answers, “I wanted to stop the Tower, too, when I was a child. It is hard to believe, I know. Sometimes I forget it, and don’t believe it myself.”

“You tried to stop it?” It was _impossible_ to imagine. This man looked as old as the earth; picturing him as a child was surreal. But then… if he tried to stop it as a child… exactly how long ago _was_ that?

He nods, solemnly. “Most kids want to stop it. Some try. Few make it far.”  


“Then why _didn’t_ you stop it?”

The man slumps, eyes drifting away. “I… I don’t know. I seemed so close. I seemed to know what I was doing…” his fingers tremble. “Then suddenly I realized I had been working for the Tower for a long time. Years. And all that time, I thought I was working to destroy it.”

That’s… vague. Cryptic. It makes no sense to you, except for a creeping sense that maybe it does. Either way, your anger slowly dissipates. If anything, the Broadcaster seems like a victim, too. You’re beginning to pity him more than you hate him.

“If you’re not behind it all…” you ask, “then who is?” Where do you have to go to stop all this horrible stuff? Who do you blame?

The Broadcaster laughs tiredly, like you said something particularly ridiculous. “There isn’t one person,” he replies more solemnly. “It’s so, so many. It’ll be you, too. You’ll understand. Very soon, I fear.” Although he wasn’t addressing Six, his eyes slide to her. It’s a knowing sort of look. One full of both dread and certainty. 

An uneasy pit forms in your stomach. You step in front of her, but your mind churns. Thinking of her Hunger. Thinking of her lack of remorse, and her endless cravings that are only truly satisfied with human blood, flesh, and souls. You help her. You feed her. You foster that Hunger. You haven’t killed _for_ her yet, not on your own, and you haven’t accepted energy from the souls she consumes. Although you’ve gotten close. And one day, maybe…

You shake your head hard. You won’t. Not _ever_. That’s exactly why you made Six promise to control her Hunger. To not kill without your say-so. That’s exactly why you refused the offer of her blood, even when you desperately could have used a boost. You do not want to be as bad as the adults. You do not even want to _be_ an adult. And you don’t like this man’s certainty. Not one bit. Your fists clench. “We’re going to be different. We’re going to stop all of this.”

There’s no conviction in the Broadcaster’s eyes. None at all. 

“You don’t have to believe us, but it’s true,” you say. “We’re going to defeat you, and then we’re going to _change_ things.”

“I hope that you do,” the Broadcaster murmurs, not even a little bit sarcastic. However, he sounds like he believes it’s impossible, and you don’t like how he’s looking over your shoulder at Six. “And I ask that you kill me quickly, if possible,” he adds. “I’d rather not live any longer than I must.”

This stops you in place, admittedly. He _wants_ to die? Perturbed, you twist your fingers together. Should you kill him? Is that the only way? 

Ravenous, Six skirts past you, taking the Broadcaster’s words as invitation.

“Wait,” you order again, hasher.

Six growls and shoots a look at you. _Why?_ she seems to demand. Why wait, why stop, now that you’re at the very end? You get the confusion, you really do. You don’t even know why you’re stopping. It’s just… 

This isn’t what you were expecting. Not even a little bit. You were bracing yourself for facing some sadistic monster far worse than the doctor. Not… Not this. Six huffs.

“You promised,” you snap at her, even though you feel a little guilty for getting mad. “No killing without my permission.”

Six’s expression is sour. You’re not sure how long her patience will last. She’s not normally so agitated shortly after eating, but something about the Broadcaster seems to make her worse. When you take in the sight of the wires pushed into the Broadcaster’s veins, you might have a guess why she’s so keen. If the TVs devour souls, then those remnants have to go somewhere. Into the wires, or into the Broadcaster. Which is… weird to think of, and disturbing, and makes you want to hate him. To hate his ugly face, and his oldness and his sadness. You can’t bring yourself to, though. He doesn’t seem to _want_ to do the awful things he’s doing.

“I just want to stop the Signal. Is there a way to do that without killing you?” You reply, ignoring Six’s betrayed look. 

The Broadcaster’s white eyebrows raise.

Six, meanwhile, grabs your sleeve hard and yanks. “What?” 

She makes a displeased noise. Her eyes are searching yours as if trying to figure out your motivation. You go to the Tower, you kill the big baddie. You go home, badda boom. So why are you changing things?

“He isn’t evil, Six.”

She quirks a brow like, _really? Seriously? _

“He’s not!” Even though he took your mother’s soul. Even though he took countless others. He’s not evil. Just… thrown into something he can’t control. That’s your understanding, even if you’re having trouble comprehending why he can’t do anything about his situation. “I’m not going to hurt him, Six. We just have to free him somehow. And shut down the televisions. With no one sending out the Signal, we’ll still achieve the same results. People will be free, and not controlled anymore.”

Six’s face is overshadowed with uncertainty. 

“That’s what you wanted, right…?” You broach hesitantly. It’s what _you_ wanted.

She peers towards the Broadcaster, and the screens behind him. There’s Hunger. Fear twists in your stomach. She’d known that souls were being taken through the televisions. She’d known more than you did, even, that they had to be getting taken _somewhere._ That one person was collecting them, consuming them. That so many could be devoured in one place. 

You feel faintly sick. “Six,” you utter, sharp, to get her attention. She looks back. “You… you told me before you wanted to do the right thing.”

It seems to take momentous effort, but finally something aside from avid hunger surfaces. She nods uneasily. 

“Eating wasn’t the _only_ reason you came here, right?”

She shakes her head, but casts another longing glance at the screens and the Broadcaster.

You’re reminded that she doesn’t have the same sense of empathy and heroism that you do. That she tries to do what’s right purely because it is right, and no other reason.Very little holds her to that. _You_ hold her to that.

_You'll understand, _the Broadcaster had said. A shiver skates down your spine. Your mind is made up. 

“I’ll get you something to eat after, if you need it.” you assure her. “An animal, or something.” Most importantly, not human. Six grasps what you mean. For a split second, you think she’ll argue. You even think she might decide to kill you after all, for daring to stop her when she wanted something so badly. That’s how terrible she looks for a single moment. How angry. How dangerous. 

Then her expression slackens. Trust overrides the Hunger. She steps away from the Broadcaster, resigned. Accepting. The meeting of your eyes conveys her resolution. You do what you need to. She won’t interfere. You smile; she sticks out her tongue.

All right. “I’m gonna free you,” you tell the Broadcaster. 

He laughs quietly. “What will I even do when I’m free? What life even…”

“I don’t know. But if you don’t have to die for the Signal to stop, then… you won’t.”

Up onto the control board you climb, and grasp the computer wires firmly. One by one, you tug them free from his veins. Blood wells up; against the back wall, Six has her fists and teeth clenched. You silently wish her strength, and continue your task until the Broadcaster is entirely freed of his technological chains.

The look of wonder he gives while staring at his freed limbs is almost heart-breaking. You don’t really understand it yourself, but it hurts to imagine him stuck here, year after year, decade after decade (surely he hasn’t been for centuries; that’s ridiculous), always fixed to the computers. 

“Didn’t you ever try to take them out?” You ask quietly. Maybe it’s awful to say, but… if you could do it, surely he could?

The man touches the oozing holes that the wires had left behind. He shakes his head, half in answer to your question, half in wonderment. Helplessly, he looks back to you. “What should I do now?”

“Anything you want. Except hurting people. You’re free.”

It’s the wires that draw his attention next. He gazes on them with a tired longing. 

“Hey,” you snap. “You’re done with that, all right? You can be whatever you want.”

“I’m old,” he says, sadly. “I… I didn’t know what I wanted as a child, what am I supposed to want now…”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But you should get out of here. We’re probably gonna do a lot of damage to this place.”

The Broadcaster stands with the help of his feeble arms. He wobbles in place, like his body isn’t sure it can withstand his own weight. Then, step by step, inch by inch, he meanders to the door. Six backs away from, although you strongly doubt it’s because she’s scared of him. Then he’s gone, trailing down the staircase. And then it’s just you and Six. 

She gazes up at you. 

“I don’t think he deserves to die,” you say, even though you’re not certain.

Six nods.

“And now we can destroy the televisions, right?” It seemed like the logical next step. Ruin the technology that was infiltrating innocent people’s minds.

She nods, a faint playful smile flickering at her lips.

“Don’t tell me you’re excited to cause an untold amount of property damage?”

She rubs her hands together mischievously. It lifts the mood, and you smile back. Well then. Better get started. 

Five minutes later, screens are shattering left and right. You jam the carving knife into television after television, leaving crackling machinery, twinkling glass, and frayed wires in your wake. Six takes to the task with the enthusiasm only she can, and she’s found any tools of destruction lying around that she can use - which include television antennas, a wrench, and a screwdriver, all which are gleefully used to smash everything in her sight. The two of you laugh like complete maniacs, dancing around gutted and crushed televisions like it’s a big game. In fact, it feels like any other game you’ve played with her, except this time, there’s the intoxicating rush of knowing that you’re putting an end to the Signal Tower. An end to the mind control. An end to _all_ of it. People can be free.

Burrowed deep in your brain a thought lurks like disease, reminding you of the Broadcaster’s words. _It’s so, so many. It’ll be you, too. You’ll understand._

You refuse to listen. Today, you bring down the Tower. You stop the corruption in this city. You’ll leave the place in ashes, and as for whatever comes after? You and Six will face it. Together. And you’ll win. You’re sure. 

Soon enough, the two of you lean against each other laughing, limbs exhausted, diaphragms heaving from amusement and exertion. 

“Not gonna lie,” you tell Six, “I always kinda wanted to do something like this.”

She nods and grins. 

“Do you still have the lighter?”

Affirmative on that one, too. You’re not so fond of the thing after the Market; however, this time you get it’s necessary. And there’s no one to hurt left in the Tower. Six skitters around the room, lighting everything on fire. Once some of the televisions start sparking and sputtering, you get too scared to hang around, and call Six back. 

Together the two of you race back down the stairs, while the heat and spoke billow behind you. Out of the window you scramble, same way you came in, and then you’re pelting down the street like the fire would follow you out. 

Panting, you both stop a few blocks away, and gaze back to the Tower. Black smoke streams from its innards, and paints the sky dark as pitch. There’s no ringing of televisions in the air. No humming. The control board, and the source of the Signal, is cooking from inside out. 

Giddy, you laugh. “It wasn’t all that hard after all, huh?”

Six gazes at the quiet, contained inferno. Her smile has faded, her countenance introspective. 

The rush dwindles. You look around the town thoughtfully. Nobody’s come out to the see the Tower. Even still, an instinctive fear warns you to hide, because children aren’t safe in the streets. That’s how it is, how it’s always been. “There won’t be monsters anymore, will there be?”

Six turns her attention to you, but signals nothing. 

“I mean… like the Teacher? Or the Hunter? We don’t have to run anymore?” Your brow is furrowing at the concept. Never before had you conceived of a world where those kinds of dangers _didn’t_ exist. And now here you are. In a world where they might not. “Kids can just… be kids,” you continue to muse. What is it like, not living in fear? The idea alone is kind of scary. Even though this is exactly what you’ve been working for this whole time. 

Like the Broadcaster, you suddenly feel at a loss. What do you do now? What did you want to do before becoming a runaway? All you can remember is trying to fit in, to not draw dangerous attention upon yourself. That kind of mentality doesn’t have any place here. So what _will_ you do? 

In your dark reverie, Six’s fingers slip into yours, drawing your attention. You look up; she smiles. Relaxed. Confident. Involuntarily, you find yourself returning the smile. 

Maybe she has a good idea what to do. 


	24. Scrapped Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tender as Meat was originally supposed to end with Mono realizing Six is beyond redemption. Because he can't bring himself to kill her, even though he recognizes it's the only way to stop the harm she's causing, he resolves to kill her at a later date, whenever she seems about to do something else unforgivable. However, I really struggled to write the full ending as intended. Therefore, I chose to end TAM on a different note, rather than leaving the story on hiatus forever.
> 
> Since I figured people might want to know the original story, I've added this chapter and explanation. This chapter is what little coherent content I wrote for the original ending. Some day I might try to go back and re-write the full ending properly, but for now this is what I can do.

She trusts you whole-heartedly.

While betrayal swarms in your mind, she only sees a friend. She grins brightly, trusting where she’d never trusted anyone before. And she slots her hand in yours, oblivious to your perfidy. 

You smile back. 

Acting, after all, is the one thing Six can never do. She doesn’t really understand people. Yes, she longs for friendship and companionship, and she feels loneliness, and playfulness, and all the range of human emotion one might expect. But she’s honest and upfront, and can’t read or understand subtleties and deceptions in others’ faces. And she takes people at face value. Expects them to hate her honestly. And expects you to like her honestly. Not for a single second does she question your loyalty. 

That… that makes you the most dangerous person to her. She might be able to fight and face any external trouble, no skin off her back. What she isn’t prepared for is someone who knows her weaknesses, knows her secrets, and who she trusts completely, to bring her demise. 

There’s no pleasure, no joy, in having this power over her. It only makes misery settle heavy in your bones, makes you feel like you’re ugly and monstrous inside. Because you like her. You like her a lot, actually - sometimes it scares you how much you do. And because she trusts you; you’re the only person she really has trusted, and you’re going to, some day, betray her. There isn’t any feeling so awful as knowing that. You even dare to hope that you won’t. That it’ll never come to that. 

She tilts her head, worry settling into her brow. _Why are you crying? _she seems to say, as she wipes a tear from your cheek. 

You shake your head, and force a watery smile. “Just happy we’re out of the Signal Tower,” you say. It’s not true. But she believes you, and smiles back, and nuzzles her head to your chest. Somehow all of that makes it worse. 

You don’t want to be like this. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. She places her fingers to your lips and shakes her head. No need for apologies. It’s okay to cry. 

So you do. 


End file.
